Through the Looking Glass
by Chloe Chamberleign
Summary: It looked like Spot wanted to say something, but he held himself back. Without thinking, I spit in my palm and shook Jack's outstretched hand. "We won't treat youse like a girl." Jack said. "I don't want you to." I fired back. Jack winked at Spot. "You might wanna keep an eye on this one; she knows what she's doing." Spot just kicked a rock on the ground, frowning.
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: Hey fellow Newsies fans, this is something I wrote after a dream I had, but this is just the prologue so be sure to stick around. I don't own Newsies, I only own my OCs.)**

Prologue

_In my small town of Fallon's Brooke, Missouri, dreams about fate or destiny is about as common as girls receiving Tiffany heart pendants on their thirteenth birthdays. But I would've done anything to know my destiny or fate, but that was before everything . . . Sometimes the past holds more questions than answers. And in Fallon's Brooke, nothing is ever what it seems._

_For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived it. There is, however, a class of fancies of exquisite delicacy which are not thoughts, and to which as yet I have found it absolutely impossible to adapt to language. These fancies arise in the soul, alas how rarely. Only at epochs of most intense tranquility, when the bodily and mental health are in perfection. And at those weird points of time, where the confines of the waking world blend with the world of dreams. And so I captured this fancy, where all that we see, or seem, is but a dream within a dream._

_ Shadows of shadows passing. It is now 2013, and as always I am absorbed with a delicate thought. It is how time travel has indefinite sensations, to which end travel is inessential. Since the comprehension of sweet time is our most indefinite conception, travel, when combined with a pleasurable idea of time, is time travel. Travel without the idea of time is simply travel. Without travel or an intriguing idea of time, color becomes pallor, man becomes carcass, home becomes catacomb, and the dead are but for a moment motionless…_

**(A/N: I hope to update Chapter 1 sometime, but if you couldn't tell already this story will be a Newsies time travel story. Pretty pretty please review! Love you all, and Happy New Year!)**


	2. Through the Looking Glass

Chapter I: Through the Looking Glass

My friend Meghan shrieked with laughter as our other friend Kaley painted her toes a bright pink. "So what's happening Friday night?" I asked, brushing my hair. We were at Kaley's house just hanging out, which normally we happened on Fridays. But we had been off of school that day, so we took advantage and called each other.

"Madison's having a party." Meghan said, inspecting her nails.

Kaley shook her head and groaned. "Ugh, forget it. Her parents usually have to supervise everything." She thought for a moment. "Wanna go see Paranormal Activity 4?"

Meghan frowned. "We'd never get in." She flipped through a Teen Vogue magazine. "Check out the top Shay Mitchell's wearing; she wore it on Pretty Little Liars."

I just absent-mindedly nodded. "Eh, it's not that great of a color."

Kaley smiled, painting Meghan s baby toe. "So what color do you want?" she asked me.

I shrugged, looking through Kaley's vast selection of nail polish."I can't decide . . . bright blue?" I then sighed deeply. "Ugh, I don t know. I'm going to be late." I said, looking up at her purple alarm clock. I grabbed my purse and my shoes.

"Late for what?" Meghan asked, raising her eyebrows.

I turned in the doorway. "My Grandpa s house for his 96th birthday." I said, rolling my eyes. "I'll call you guys later about tonight."

They waved, and I walked out the front door. Once home, I pushed open the front door angrily. I did not want to have to be drug into going to some lame get together with my family. It was the same every year for Grandpa's birthday: I'd have to dress up nicely, with my mom fussing over what I wore. My parents would stress me out in the car by telling me I had to actually talk to people this year. We would walk in, I'd plaster on some fake smile, and greet people, which included getting squeezed to death by my aunts, high fived really hard by my uncles, grossly kissed by my grandparents, and then jumped on by their dog. Then I would wander over to the couch and sit down, staring at the clock while my older cousin, Elizabeth, would cuss at me, complaining that she didn't want to be here.

"I'm getting ready!" I called as I rushed up the stairs to my room.

"You were supposed to be home at 4:30," my mother called from her room.

"You have ten minutes, Hailey!" My dad chimed in, fixing his tie. "I said ten, not fifteen!"

My mother stepped into my room before I could close it. "I laid out your dress on your bed; I just ironed it. Can you at least say thank you?"

I rolled my eyes, and closed my door. "Do I have to go?" I muttered to her.

My mom gave me a stern mom look. "We've been over this. Get dressed." I sighed and walked into my parent's bathroom where my dad was using mouth wash.

"Why do I have to go? It's a waste of time."

My dad gargled and then spit in the sink. "Some things you have to do."

I stomped over to my mom who was putting on some earrings. "Come on, Mom?"

"We're going because it's important." She said, putting on the earring back.

"Why is it important?"

"It's important because I said so," she scolded, shooing me away. I rolled my eyes and stormed off to my room, slamming the door.

I took off my jeans and t-shirt, standing in my bra and underwear. Suddenly my door flung open; I don't have a lock. I screamed.

"Do you have five bucks I could borrow?" My older brother Matt asked, not caring if I was fuming.

"Matt!" I yelled, covering myself with my robe.

Matt raised his eyebrows. "Actually, do you have twenty bucks I could borrow?"

"Get out!"

"Can I borrow fifty bucks?" he asked, before I shoved his out, and slammed my door again.

Groaning, I put on my dress, and brushed out my mid-back length hair.

By the time we got to my Grandpa s house, it was dark out. Once we got in the house, music poured from the walls. I groaned again. It was traditional Italian music, my heritage.

"Oh, Katherine!" My great aunt greeted my mother, hugging her.

"It's so good to see you," my mother replied, smiling. My parents were led in by the other adults.

"Matty!" Great Aunt Maya exclaimed, hugging Matt in a death grip. "You re getting so big! Eighth grade, now?"

"Sophomore in high school." Matt said, returning a fake smile.

"Hailey," My aunt Audrey patted my head. "You look lovely. Every time I see you, you look more like your mother."

I grinned. Aunt Audrey and I were super close. "Hey,"

"We need you to save the day in the kitchen." My other aunt Mary said, to Aunt Audrey. Aunt Audrey nodded, and winked at me.

"We ll catch up later, yeah?"

I nodded, smiling. I loved her New York accent. She had lived there with my mom and their family when they were younger. I wandered over through my grandpa's large house, and found myself in my grandmother's old room. She had past away last December, and grandpa had gotten very depressed.

"Have I ever told you about the time I was thrown in jail?" I heard my grandpa asking Matt.

Matt tried to look interested. "Lots of times, Grandpa."

"What about the one when-"

"I think they're starting to light the candles, Grandpa." I said, coming to my older brother's rescue.

But Grandpa looked intrigued. "Why were you in Grandmother's room?" he asked.

"I don't know." I admitted, while Matt walked away. Grandpa motioned for me to come over. I followed him into Grandma's room. He stepped over to a full-length antique mirror. "What?" I asked, not understanding.

"It's in the glass." He whispered before looking around several times.

"What is?" I asked.

"Shh!" he yelled. I raised my eyebrows. He pointed to the glass. "The strike. It's in the glass."

I furrowed my brow. "Huh," I said, nodding slowly. "What does that mean?"

He simply shook his head and left the room. Whatever. He s just a crazy old man.

"Happy birthday to you" came the familiar tune as our family sang to Grandpa.

After he blew out the candles, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay?" I looked into the eyes of Aunt Audrey.

"Yeah, just can t wait to get through this." I mumbled. To make things worse, Mom and Dad made me spend the night there. She said I'll be able to bond more with my grandpa. I sighed as I got into my white nightgown. Turning off the lamp light, I looked around the dark room that once belonged to Grandma.

I couldn't believe I had to stay here. Looking around the room, my eyes rested on the mirror. It s glass shimmered in the moon light from outside. But something was off. It wasn t shimmering, it was glimmering. No, shining.

I tossed aside the blankets and stepped over to the mirror. I tugged on my long dark hair. What the hell was happening?

Stupidly, I touched the glass, and my hand went right through. And then it was as if something pushed me the rest of the way through. I felt as though I was falling through a blinding light. And then all was silenced. All was dark. All was still. And for a moment, I thought I was dead.


	3. June 14, 1899

A shatter of a glass tea cup and the piercing cry of a baby drilled through the silence. My eyes fluttered open. Where was I? A dull energy filled the atmosphere as I found myself in a narrow bed. Looking around, I saw I was in some sort of apartment. Not five star, though. I gazed out a nearby window. The sun had barely risen. Cold, bitter air filtered in through slits in the walls. But wasn't it summer?

From what I had recalled yesterday, it was Thursday. I forgot to call Meghan and Kaley! Darn it. I looked around. This wasn't Grandma's room. A great fear swept through me. Had I been kidnapped?

I looked up to see a man with dark hair already roused and dressing. My first impulse was to scream. But I couldn't or wouldn't; I don't know which. As if noticing me for the first time, he smiled. "Buongiorno."

I blinked. Was that Grandpa? "You look so, so,"

The man raised his eyebrows. "Yes?

"So young." I finished. And he did. I've seen black and white old pictures of him in his thirties.

Younger Grandpa laughed. "I wish I was looking in the same mirror you are looking in, Hailey."

I shook my head. "Yeah, I don t really recommend that." I looked at my clothes. They looked a bit old fashioned. "What's going on here?" I clutched the thin sheets tight.

"Are you feeling alright, child?" he asked in his same Italian accent. "Does anything hurt you?"

"Will you please tell me what's going on here?" I asked again, becoming very scared. "What is this place? Where did you come from?"

Grandpa ruffled my hair. "Don't you remember?" he asked like I was insane. Yeah, _I _was the insane one.

"Remember what?"

He lifts my chin gently. "You were very sick, Hailey. This is your first day out of bed in a while."

I raised my eyebrows. "You gotta be kidding me. I haven't been sick." I looked around at the small tenement. "Where is everybody? Where are my parents?"

Grandpa looked strangely at me. "Do you not recognize your own father?" he asked, gripping my shoulders with concern. I blinked.

"My father? Will you repeat what you just said? No," I shook my head. "No, you don't have to. You should know that you are my Grandfather, and I want to go back to Fallon s Brooke."

"Where?" he asked. "What is that?"

"Fallon s Brooke. I'm from Fallon s Brooke, Missouri." I repeated, getting annoyed.

Grandpa shook his head. "Hailey, you're from Sicily, Italy." He looked at me with concern. "You've been very ill on the boat over here. It's the fever." He took my hand gently. "Let's begin at the beginning. I am your father, Giovanni Contadino, and we share a tenement with Mrs. Rivera and her six children."

"And I'm Hailey Contadino, right?"

Grandpa nodded. "Yes, and you're from Sicily, Italy. And now we live in Brooklyn."

I felt my forehead. "Is it a dream? Is it a bad dream?"

Grandpa also felt my forehead. "Hailey, you're still awake. Calm down."

"Listen, something's wrong. I'm not crazy, Grand-er, Papa," I caught myself. "And I'm not dreaming. Please believe me."

Grandpa shook his head. "You almost left me. You had a high fever for nearly two weeks. You are just recovering, now." He stroked my hair. "Now, up," he said, sharply.

I exalted, bit my lip, and pulled back the covers, exposing myself to frigid air. I slipped on an old pair of boots Grandpa handed me, and decided to play along.

"You'd better not talk about what you have just said to me around my co-workers today." Grandpa stressed. "Siate buoni."

When Grandpa told me to do something back home, he usually said it in Italian, so I knew what he had said: Be good.

Suddenly, a deafening scream interrupted us. I looked over to see a bitter woman with her six children surrounding her. She must be Mrs. Rivera. Mrs. Rivera is lingering close to our side of the room with a whimpering child on her hip. Grandpa closes the curtain that divides our room. I tell myself to call Grandpa _Papa_ as to not trouble him more. Wherever I am, I ain't getting home soon. Which brings me to my other question. "What is the date today, Papa?" I stutter softly.

"June 14, 1899, Hailey," he says. He cuts off a rigid loaf of bread for what I'm assuming is breakfast.

"I think I'm dreaming. But when I pinch myself, I don't awaken. It isn't possible. I can't really be here."

He kneeled down and took my hand in his. "You're starting to scare me. Are you ill? Shall I send for the doctor?"

"It's not that I'm ill; I just can't believe what I'm seeing." I grumble half-heartedly.

"Well that's not good. You will come with me to the railroad today so I can keep an eye on you. There are match girls who work outside the tracks. You will ask them where you can do the same. But don't start talking about all this dream nonsense!" he reprimanded.

The sun was now peeking over the tenement across the street, and the warmth was slinking across the clothes line to our window.

"Come." He lifted me up off the bed and nestled me into his tall frame. My Grandpa was all I had in this strange parallel universe.

"Giovanni, if the girl is to stay today, she should stay here with me and help me with the little ones," Mrs. Rivera demanded.

I cringed slightly. Her glare was more piercing than scissors. "We pay to stay here," Grandpa said. "Unless you wish to pay her for her babysitting?"

Mrs. Rivera scoffed. She probably would never pay me. It almost seemed as if she treated me like a child. I am fifteen, but because I am petite, I look twelve, so people often treated me younger than I was.

"Well, that settles it." Grandpa winked as he whisked me out of the door. I realized instead of my nightgown, I had on shirtwaist and a long skirt. My hair was brushed straight down my back. In the dim hall of the tenement, I treaded over two young street urchins curled up along the wall. They were no more than seven years old and smelled of gutters and sour milk. I tried to sneeze out the smell. Was it the usual smell or the two kids? I couldn't tell.

"Isn't it bad for them to be sleeping here?" I whispered to Grandpa.

"Hush," Grandpa scolded. Okay, so maybe he was right. I shouldn't be looking down on them. But it was something about their insensitive voices and the liberty they flaunted that made me hate them. Back in the future, Grandpa had told me stories about how he used to pay five bucks a month to stay at the tenement, and these two kids were getting lodgings for free.

Speaking of which, we soon approached Broadway and 32nd when I noticed a similar newsie shouting the headlines on the street corner. "Woman murdered by sweatshop. Dented skull! Murderer on the loose!"

I hurried my pace to get away from his loud voice, but being a klutz I tripped and flew hands first onto the pavement, sorta catching myself.

Instantly, I felt myself being lifted back up.

"Thanks, Papa." I dusted off my skirt. However it was not Papa's face I gazed into, but the shouting newsie's wide, satisfied smirk.

"Ya okay there, miss?"

"Yeah."

The boy then chuckled slightly. And darn it, his laugh was footloose and fancy free. I grit my teeth, acted well-mannered, and plastered a strained grin on my lips as I hurried to catch up to my Grandpa who was already a couple steps ahead.

Interested, I glanced back over my shoulder at the boy who was back to hawking the headlines. He wasn't a boy at all, but nearly sixteen. He had a good three inches on me, and messy dirty blonde hair tucked under his cap. His face had soft features, but his irritatingly adorable smirk stood out the most. It really drew customers right to him. He wasn't too dirty like other newsboys, but it was only the morning. The strangest thing about him was a key on a string tucked neatly around his neck, hanging over his chest where the shirt was torn slightly.

Abruptly, he gazed over at me and locked eyes. Caught off guard, I cringed and flinched. As I was just about to turn back around, he flashed me one more wide, sly smirk.

Grandpa was correct about the match girls at 32nd and Broadway: they were infesting the area with their tough attitudes and intimidating glares that read DON'T MESS WITH ME. I gulped nervously as we approached.

"Hey, maybe I can just tag along with you real quick? I've always wanted to see where you work," I offered to Grandpa, which was primarily true.

Grandpa sighed. I had remembered him telling me stories about the Trolley Strike in Brooklyn and how it had effected his work during that time.

"Just for a little while. But be good." he relented finally.

"Yay! I'll be quiet, pinky swear!" I said, grinning and taking his hand.

Grandpa shook his head. "The way you speak, I'll never understand."

Once inside the factory at 32nd, I instantly felt a cool breeze rather than the heat from outside.

My hair brushed in front of my face. Frustrated, I braided my hair in two braids down my shoulders with two makeshift rubber bands. I looked up at Grandpa, but he seemed very concerned. Not with me, but something ahead of him.

"What's up?"

Grandpa's brow lowered. I followed his gaze to a group of foremen that had gathered at the center of the factory. When the group saw Grandpa, they turned and headed for him. As they moved closer, three cops mixed among them drifted to the front of the crowd.

A burly man shuffled close behind them. He gestured the officers in our direction.

"What's your name?" stated the officer to Grandpa.

"Giovanni Contadino," my grandpa mumbled, confused.

The man nodded. "That's him. That's the Italian."

The cop grabbed my grandpa by the shoulder. Grandpa was too puzzled to say anything.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said, crossing my arms. "What's going on?"

I sprinted after the several cops that were forcing Grandpa outside into the heat. His co-workers were mumbling stuff like "murderer" and "immigrant."

Fighting through the crowd, I surfaced in time to see the police place my grandpa in a wagon. The door of bars swung closed, and he clutched them with shaking hands, confused.

They didn't even ask him questions, or gave explanations. I realized that Grandpa didn't know enough English words to argue with them. "Hailey!" he called as the wagon took off. "Hai bisogno di andare ..." he searched for the word in English. "Tenement... Ti amo." But I couldn't go home, I don't care if he insisted.

Panic filled me as I realized the only person I knew in this strange dimsension of the past was being taken away from me. I ran after him, beads of sweat forming on my brow, my braids whipping me in the face.

Tears, actual tears, streamed down my face. "What the hell is this?" I shouted up to the sky. "Am I in some kind of Purgatory or something?!"

My boots killed my feet. There was no way I could catch him, and even if I did, that did nothing. But I kept running over the sewage drains and broken glass covering 32nd Street.

It wasn't long before I lost sight of the wagon. Defeated I dropped to my knees and began to cry. I felt weak and vulnerable. A woman took my hand softly.

"Darling, calm yourself." Her voice was soft and chirped like a humming bird. She gazed at me, and touched my tangled braids. "Young lady, dry your tears!"

"Grand, er, Papa, they've taken Papa away," was all I could say.

"The authorities?"

"Yeah, them. I need to go help him!" I yelled at her, forgetting my manners. I can't exactly remember if it was the emotional trauma of being in a strange time or losing Grandpa.

"Do you have a mother?" she aksed.

I thought. Huh, I didn't know. Where was Grandma? So then I said something that I should've let out of my mouth if only I had known what was going to happen.

"She, uh, died. Please help me find my papa?" I begged, gripping her white silk dress strap on her shoulder. She didn't seem to care; she just let me cry.

"It will be okay, sweetie." she hushed.

Then she released me. She touched my shoulder gently. "Your Papa is the only one left to take care of you?" she asked.

"Yes..." I trailed off. Dammit, I'd made a terrible mistake. I shivered slightly and gazed at the woman nervously. She was a Rehabilitator, one who disinfected the streets from runaways and orphans.

"You're coming with me, young lady," She said, her tone was no longer gentle.

"Wipe your tears." she instructed.

Sheepishly, I wiped my tears from my eyes. I felt ashamed for crying to this woman. She didn't care if I was hurt; it didn't cost her to be harsh. I suddenly felt the urge to live with Mrs. Rivera, but Lord knows she didn't want another mouth to feed.

Cautiosly, I followed the woman as we came across a dark, cold building. I walked quietly, bitterly swearing in my mind. I looked back at the corner of 32nd and 4th. But the newsboy had vanished.


	4. Orphanage

It wasn't until I read the sign on the building that I realized where we were: Grey Stone Orphan Asylum for Young Girls. We were now on West 34th Street. It was a simple, brim-stoned, four-story building with columns of nine or so windows covering each floor.

The woman let go of her harsh grip on the neck of my shirt and plopped me in a blue chair outside a large office. I had a feeling this was a chair where bad kids sit. The woman looked in her late twenties, short and stocky. She had on a wedding ring. The matron in the office addressed the woman as Mrs. Irena Lambert, and she worked for the Children's Aid Society. Oh, goody.

I was left alone in the hall as she was summoned to the director of admissions office and spoke intensly to the middle-aged woman behind a desk. I fidgeted slightly as I listened to her give a speech about how she "saved" me from the plight of the streets.

"Rodger," Mrs. Lambert began, "the girl has no possessions, and I'm positive she has had no education." I rolled my eyes. Back home I attended Fallon's Brooke Private High School, but she didn't need to know that.

"Not been educated? At fifteen?" The director woman seemed astonished.

"I have sent Miss Anthons over to see her father and have him sign the child over to the care of the Society. If he refuses, the court will certainly overule his imput."

"Well, I suppose the girl can work as a matron..." the woman thought.

Mrs. Lambert looked satisfied. "Excellent idea, the girl can look after the younger children. She seems responsible for the most part; the mother must've taught her manners before she died."

It was then that I had remebered learning about cities in the 1800s shipping children out west as indentured farmhands or mother's helpers from history class. Joy to the world. But still, the asylum could be worse.

"Come here," Mrs. Lambert requested harshly as she left the office. "The philosophy here at Grey Stone is a very simple one," she explained. "Through the powers of prayer, cleanliness, and hard work, the fallen may find their way back to Jesus Christ., our Lord and Savior. In our asylum, we do not only teach studies of the world, but reform that will cleanse your very soul and to remove the stains of sins you have committed. Here you may redeem yourself and, God willing, save yourself from eternal damnation." she paused, glancing at my terrified expression.  
"Breakfast is at 6:00. Prayer is at 6:30. Work begins at 7:00. Lunch is at-"

"Excuse me, miss?" I interrupted politely, raising a finger. "I think I should go." Mrs. Lambert glared at me right in the eye, staring into my soul. I didn't like it. "You see, my father was taken from-"

Mrs. Lambert shushed me. "Don't ever interrupt me, girl. Did no one ever tell you that it's bad manners to interrupt? Or were you too busy whoring with the boys to listen? Is that what it was?"

I shook my head, very offended. "No, ma'am." I replied weakly.

"Are you simpleminded? Is that what it is?" she asked, smirking. "Are you a simpleton?" I shook my head. "I decide when or if you're allowed to leave. And I think I can safely say it could be quite some time. What's your name?"

"Hailey, ma'am." I answered softly. This woman was really pushing it.

"Hailey what?"

"Contadino."

"We have a Hailey already. What's your middle name?" she demanded.

"I don't have one, ma'am." I said, frowning.

Mrs. Lambert raised her eyebrows. "Perhaps not on your birth certificate. But I'm sure I can think of one or two names for you now." she grumbled. "What's your confirmation name?"

"Margarette." I mumbled to the floor.

"Then you may call yourself Margarette." I just stared at her as she looked at me expectantly. "'Thank you, ma'am.'" she reminded.

I swallowed. "Thank you, ma'am."

She nodded, satisfied, and led me up a set of stairs. We paused at a room at the far end of a long corridor. It reminded me of a version of the nurse's office at my school. Standing before a desk stood a woman in a white uniform, holding a clipboard. Well that's never good. I shakily followed Mrs. Lambert into the room. "Strip to your underclothing," the nurse said.

I did as I was told and she examined me. She asked if I had any illnesses before. I shook my head to their relief. The nurse filled out some medical paperwork, writing my name as Margarette, my birthdate (which I made up), my former place of residence, and if I had been vaccinated. "We seldom accept girls older than eleven," she said with a contemptuous smile. "You will have to work extra hard and help with the smaller ones."

Then I was handed a hand-me-down uniform which barely fit me and was itchy. She turned to Mrs. Lambert. "The girl is in good health. There shouldn't be any problems."

Mrs. Lambert nodded and walked to the door.

"Wait, ma'am, what about my-" I stuttered, scrambling over to her, wanting to know if she would help my grandfather.

Mrs. Lambert paused in the doorway, turned quickly, and shot me an understanding grin. "You should be fine here," she affirmed. "I'll make sure your father writes you a letter."

She then left the room. This sucked.

It was then that I was introduced to Sister Bridget, who was a matron in charge of the smaller ones. She was a headstrong, stocky woman with a fearsome hand. She pointed to my bed in one of the rows of about one hundred cots.

"Second from the left wall."

She turned and expected me to follow her without question. I stopped, and she glared at me unpleasently. "This is a place of behavior and goodness. You will be expected to follow instructions from your matrons, your teachers, and other authoratative figures." I nodded swiftly and hurried after her.

"We will send for your belongings tomorrow. But anything questionable among your possessions and will will forbid it."

I knew I didn't have any belongings in this world, and if I did, I'm sure Mrs. Rivera sold them.

Up the hall, we arrived in a classroom where girls were in the midst of reading and writing on their slates.

"We have classes all year," Sister Bridget explained, much to my dismay.

My palms sweated as Sister Bridget silenced the teaching nun with her appearance.

"Sit down," I was commanded. As the class continued, I looked out the small window, and pretended to not know the answers so I wouldn't be bothered with.

Finally after two hours of pain, I followed the ocean of girls into the cafeteria. I became excited at the sight of food: heated beef, tomatos, cabbage soup, and fruit. As the scent wafted through the air, I could barely finish the mealtime prayer.

I shoveled the food into my mouth in seconds at a time, but when I tried to eat another bite, a hand soared down and knocked my food off my fork.

"Mind your manners, girl. You are setting an example," a fair-skinned matron scolded. She then moved to another table to reprimand another girl. I stared at the meat that had rolled on the floor. I was so tempted to pick it up.

The sound of spoons clinking soup bowls filled the air. My stomach pained with hunger. I noticed girl's staring at me through their slurps. Most were in between four and seven. Some actually looked a year or two younger than me. I caught a small Irish girl's gaze, but she quickly turned back down to her plate. These girls obviously didn't make friends.

Before I could finish eating, Sister Bridget grabbed my arm. She ordered me to collect the plates. Shyly, I got up and followed her, but not without tucking an apple in my pocket for later.

Two other girls soon joined me. One girl was thin and boney with short, tangled curls. The other was taller with a small nose and so help me God yellow eyes. I scrubbed the dishes as I watched the two whisper and giggle to each other.

"Hurry up, girl," the scrawny girl said. "the faster you get done, the sooner we can leave."

"Sorry," I muttered under my breath and continued with the dishes.

A shatter rang through the small kitchen, and I looked down to see fractures of a white plate at my feet. I turned to see the scrawny girl sneering at me.

"Did you drop this plate?" screamed the matron from the other side of the kitchen. She stomped over to me.

I was really confused. The boney girl giggled quietly.

"No," I stuttered.

"Angela and Veronica have been washing dishes for a year now."

"Well..." I began, "I didn't even touch it."

"I saw her," spoke the taller girl with yellow eyes.

"Hand me the apple in your pocket," commanded the matron.

I slowly dipped my hand into the front pocket of the small uniform and pulled out the apple, handing it over reluctantly.

"You will give up your breakfast priveleges for tomorrow. We do not have extra plates for you to break as you wish." the matron stormed out, holding the only piece of my dinner in her hands.

"Why would you do that?" I rebuked.

"You should know the rules," the boney girl whispered sharply back.

"But you broke the plate."

"No, our rules!" the tall girl added.

"We are in charge. We run this place, and you'd better do what we say."

I was too bitter to respond. They were younger than me, and maybe taller. I knew I should teach them to shut up, but that would be stupid. I've never fought anybody in my life, physically, because I never had reason. I held my anger in, finished the dishes without another word, and then left the kitchen.

After a long series of prayers, we were harshly instructed for bedtime at 7:30. Rain poured down from the skies and hit the windows. I was told to help the younger girls in undressing and helping them to their beds.

When eight o'clock came, the lights were blown out and the noises began. Countless coughs and sneezes, muffled whimpers and cries and sniffles, and giggling from the older girls mashed in with the rainstorm. I was somewhat happy for all the noise. Silence would have forced me to think back on the day, how I hated this place and how depressed I was feeling. I was determined to find out what happened to my grandfather and get back to 2013, even if it meant escaping a dry bed that rested safely behind stone walls. 


	5. Spot

The morning before science class, Sister Bridget spoke to me of a letter that had arrived from my 'father'. In the note he had written he said that he had agreed to my stay and agreed to pay for my food and shelter here when he was released. Huh. I don't think Grandpa would end up paying for me, I knew he was broke. They would probably send me out west to pay off the debt.

"May I see the letter?" I asked.

"It was addressed to the director of admissions, child. You may not be nosy. Nosiness is a sin." she said, walking away.

I fumed inside. I needed to read the letter.

"I know for a fact that they keep the letters in a locked box," whispered Lydia, the small Irish girl from the other night. "But don't even think about it. You need a search warrant to see it."

"Have you ever read a letter addressed to you?" I wondered.

"Once when I was ill with influenza and the nuns showed me a letter from my Mam. I suppose they thought it would make me feel better."

"What did she say in the letter?"

"She hoped I would feel better and she would send for me soon." Lydia tried to hide her anger that this hadn't happened yet.

"I really have to see the letter, and I can't fake influenza that well." I said, frowning.

The teacher walked into the classroom and the girls were silent. My mind wandered during the lesson. There was only one time I could get into that office, and that was when the girls went to work and the nuns would be in chapel.

After lunch prayers, I formulated a plan. As long as I looked like I was at work, I knew the sisters would ignore me. I took a broom at the front of the hall outside the dormitory and walked up the stairs to the upper floor.

I silently swept closer and closer to the admission director's, my heart echoing the beating of a drum. As I swept just before the door, it opened and an elderly gentleman stepped out.

"Pardon me, sir," I said quickly.

To my relief, he merely huffed and stepped over the swept up dust, the door slamming behind him. Quickly, I slipped the broom between the door and the wall to prop it open.

Lydia suddenly appeared out of nowhere, how nice. "There you are."

"Look, Lydia, I need you to stand guard on the door and alert me if anyone comes in."

She just stared at me, but I didn't have time to argue with this girl.

"Just whistle if you hear anyone coming."

She gave a small nod, and I pried open the door, removed the broom, and crept inside.

The box was on the desk, and I walked over to it quickly. I quickly tried to open it but it was locked. Sifting through the desk drawer, I came upon a key. I unlocked the box with caution, finding a letter addressed to "Hailey Contadino."

_Dear Mis,_  
_i am the man who dauter is in you plase. i wish to no she is wel and that she lurns good. let her no this._  
_thak you vearry kindly Giovanni Contadino_

My heart sank. It was his handwriting alright, his imperfect English. There was no return address, for it had been torn off.

Suddenly, the door opened, revealing the admissions director, the elderly man, and Sister Bridget next to them. Their faces did not look pleasant. They were fuming with anger. Lydia stood behind them, hanging her head sheepishly. Sister Bridget had a firm grip on the small girl's shoulder. The fierce woman quickly grabbed my wrist and dragged me from the office so fast that I could barely here the punishment she shouted at me.

Lydia's eyes were wet and apologetic. She didn't turn me in. My anger eased as I knew she hadn't betrayed me, so I stayed silent. I knew I shouldn't trust anyone, but at that moment I was glad the girl stayed true.

Without hesitation, Sister Bridget slapped me across the face and locked me in a supply closet.

After two hours of isolation to "incite prayer and reflection," I was put to work. The scrubbing of the wooden floors would help scrub away my sins. All it really did was give me a searing pain in my arm. I didn't mind the hard labor, but I did mind that I was doing it for free. This place was exhausting me.

I never had to scrub floors back home in 2013. I remember my Grandmother scrubbing floors when she was still alive. Even though we told her to use oxy clean or a mop, she refused. She would scrub each tile on the floor effortlessly, even in her old age. Memories of her seemed like mysteries I could never unsolve.

"Prison escape!" called a voice from the open window from the streets where the clatter of horses' hooves and the squeaking of wagons roared. "Officer killed in a prison escape!"

I hurried to the first story window and looked out. Outside was the loud newsboy. I instantly noticed the key on a shoelace around his neck and red suspenders. When he turned, sensing my gaze, I immediately recognized his smirk.

He tipped his hat and then continued on with his selling, apparently not recognizing me.

"Excuse me? Boy!" I called over to him.

"Yeah, lady."

I almost expected him to offer me a paper, but he didn't.

"Is that prison escape a real story?"

He looked over and walked closer to the window.

"Why do ya care if it is or not?"

I didn't know what to tell him. I wouldn't let myself trust him. No, not at all.

"Maybe it's someone ya know?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and laughing quietly.

"Look, is it true or not?" I hissed back.

He looked around, and then whispered back, "No, I made up that headline."

I felt relieved and worried.

"What's he in for?"

I paused, not wanting to tell him anything.

"Hey, I told you the headline wasn't real." He smirked.

"It's my Papa," I said, remembering not to say "grandfather." "And I don't think he did anything. They took him several days ago, and the next thing I knew I was sent here."

"I recognize ya now." He dropped his papers to his side. "Youse the girl from the factory with your pa."

My heart pounded. "Did you happen to see where they took him?"

"I might know where they would 'ave."

"Please could you find out? I'll, uh, pay you!"

"Yeah? With what, girlie?" he chuckled.

"Oh, I'll find something," I fired back sternly.

"Your pa's all ya got, isn't he?"

I lowered my gaze. I didn't want to start crying in front of him.

"I knows all about being lonely, orphan girl," he responded soothingly. "I'll find him for ya."

My heart soared. I tried to contain my joy with a small smile.

"Ya find a way to be outside near the back alley, and I'll tell youse what I knows."

"Can you really find out where he is?"

"Sure I can. I'se a newsie. I'se know my way around. What's the name?"

I wasn't sure I could trust him. But what good would it give him to tell the nuns? And if he never came back, that wasn't too terrible either.

"Giovanni Contadino," I reluctantly told him.

"No, what's _ya_ name?" he asked without hesitation.

I bit my lip before giving in. "Hailey."

He tipped his cap again. "I'se Spot. Nice ta meet ya."

Before I could say anything more, Spot was gone in an instant toward Staten Island.

I spent the rest of the afternoon thinking of Spot. I thought about what his real name could be, where he was from, and if he was like the newsboys I'd seen sleeping in the tenement hallway. I wondered about the key hanging from a shoe lace around his neck and if he always smirked at girls like he smirked at me. Then I realized I was being vain, I thought about other things.

The evening was spent in chapel for my sins as the latter of my punishment. The silence of the building was excruciating. I was used to noise of cars outside my window back home, and One Direction blasting from my iPod. It helped me not to reflect on my troubles. But now I had time to reflect, and in the silence I was reminded of home.

I loved my family very much and I had lived through the death of two older siblings. My two older brothers died in a car crash. Matt and I were like miracles. My mother wanted to home school us, but my dad insisted of sending us to Fallon's Brooke elementary school, and later high school. I missed my friends, Kaley and Meghan. I wondered if they were worried about me, or if time was sort of frozen, or if they even existed yet. I wondered how I would get back home. And if I wanted to go back home.

Was I trapped here forever? I wanted to cry. I wanted to get Grandpa out of that prison. I wanted my parents to kiss me goodnight like they did every night. I wanted Matt to fight with me over the TV remote. I wanted Grandpa to tell me stories. And now it was all gone. I could never return.

The bell rang, signaling it was time for dinner. I then remembered Spot telling me to meet him around the back alley and he would tell me news about Grandpa. Just as last night, one of the sisters gave me a job in the kitchen. Maybe I could sneak some fruit from the leftovers and give it to Spot as payment. But instead, the sister ordered me to take a plate of spoiled tomatoes outside to the garbage bin.

Once in the alley, the humid New York air commenced me. I tried not to inhale through my nose, for the trash reeked of garbage. I waited for what seemed like twenty minutes, and I began to lose hope of him even returning. I felt foolish for trusting him. Then a voice rang out from the darkness.

"He's at the Auburn on 135 State Street."

I jumped at his voice, dropping the spoiled tomatoes on the ground. Rats infested them instantly.

"You found him?"

"Yeah, not too many answerin' to the name Contadino. He's sorta tall, right?"

"That's him!" I exclaimed, but Spot's expression changed my excitement.

"Bad news. He's in for murder of a high-office police chief."

"Murder?"

Spot nodded and leaned against the stone wall, stuffing his hands in his pockets. I was too shocked to speak.

"Durin' some trolley strike uprising, they say he attacked a cop and stabbed him," he explained.

"He wouldn't do that. Of course he wouldn't. I know him." I reassured myself out loud. I couldn't imagine my Grandfather killing a fly.

"Hey, I believe ya, but they ain't gonna believe ones like us."

"What's that mean?"

"Street kids."

"I need to bust him out."

"From Auburn?" he chuckled. "Best of luck to ya."

I wanted to fight back, but I knew Spot knew more than I did. He was from this time, after all.

"Well don't be hopeless," he said. "There's possibilities of gettin' him out. But ya are gonna need some cash to hire a good lawyer."

"A-a lawyer?"

"Yeah, ya could bail him out, but it'd be just as much money to hire a lawyer, maybe even more. How much do they pay ya here?"

"They wouldn't pay me here even if I wasn't in debt to them," I responded gravely.

"Ya could work as a newsie if ya wanna," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"How much does a newsie make?"

"Eh, fifty-two cents a day when the news is good. Sometimes a dollar if there's a war or natural disaster."

"I'll need either of those, then." I said without thinking.

Spot laughed. I couldn't help but weakly chuckle as well. His company was soothing. His offer was enticing, yet chancy.

"I was hoping to pay you with some leftover fruit, but they sent me to pitch the rotten tomatoes instead."

"Ah, I don't care, it was nothin'."

"I should be getting back inside or they'll lock me out," I said quickly.

"I'll be here tomorra," he said casually. "If ya wanna talk some more."

"Thanks."

He picked up his stack of papers from beside him. "The ships will be anchoring in the Hudson River harbor in a couple of minutes. The docks are a good spot."

And with that, he walked off out of the alley, leaving me with so many questions unanswered. As long as I stayed in the orphanage, I wasn't doing anything to get Grandfather out, and if I didn't, then who knows? I might not even exist in the future. But if I did run away from the asylum, where would I go? I couldn't work in a factory, I had no experience with sewing machines or mill work. There was no Starbucks I could work at part-time. Maybe life with the newsies was my only option. And for a moment, it didn't seem like a bad idea.


	6. The Escape

The following morning, I woke to the sound of a wild yell outside the dormitory. I leapt out of my cot and hurried to the hall as the other girls did the same. Sister Bridget was lying face down on the floor, a small girl crying above her. It was a horrible sight.

The little girl who had found her was sobbing uncontrollably. "I was just going to the washroom when I found her!"

The sisters and elderly gentleman, wrapped in his morning robe, paused in terror at the sight.

"Send for the doctor!" cried one of the sisters while checking Sister Bridget's pulse.

After an hour of rumors, suspicion, and waiting, word eventually traveled through the orphanage that Sister Bridget had passed away. It appeared to have something to do with the stomach pain medicine she had taken had been contaminated with food poisoning.  
I decided to stay clear of the matter, as they were blaming it on one of the girls. But as soon as the admission's director appeared at my dormitory, I froze. She placed her hands on her hips and glared at me suspiciously. I realized they would blame the newgirl...me.

I was locked in the admission director's office for half an hour until Mrs. Lambert arrived to see me.

"We have decided to send you out west," said Mrs. Lambert.

"Uh, why?" I stammered. My worst thoughts were coming true.

"You will be better off there. They will make sure you are fed and clothed until you are old enough to move back to New York. Your debt will be paid."

I couldn't speak. My throat was locked, and I gulped.

"Wh-when do I leave?"

"As soon as we finish the necessary paperwork, you will be on the 12:00 train tomorrow afternoon."

I fidgeted slightly. I was being sent away to the west where there wasn't much of anything yet. I then formed my plan. I could wait to dinner to make my escape.

It was almost nice that I didn't have any possessions with me. It made for lighter travel. I had nothing, but I did have a strange alliance in Spot.

Dinner was somewhat small. I inhaled as much food as I could, hoping it would last me a few days. I managed to appear ladylike.

After I finished, I expected Mrs. Lambert to assign me a job in the kitchen. I waited and waited. She still made no move to do so.

It made me feel more anxious when I saw Angela and Veronica go off to do their chores.

I stood quickly, hoping to get to the kitchen before they did. I felt Mrs. Lambert's eyes on me. I had walked into the kitchen when I felt Mrs. Lambert's presence.

"Margarete," she said in a cold tone.

I held my breath and looked around to face her. Couldn't she just call me by my real name?

"There isn't reason for you to work tonight. Please go back and sit down."

Angela and Veronica stood behind her. They undoubtedly told her that I was causing trouble or something.

Mrs. Lambert was still glaring at me. I almost wanted to make a break for the door and bolt from the place. It wasn't like she could catch me.

"I, uh, just wanted to help clean," I lied.

She crossed her arms. "And why?"

I thought and thought. "Well, I wanted to make up for poor Sister Bridget through my hard work."

"Church and penance," Mrs. Lambert said, raising her eyebrow.

"Exactly," I smiled innocently.

There was a minute of silence, and I know Veronica and Angela were dying inside.

"Very well then," she spoke finally. "You are to take out the tray of ashes from the stove and empty them outside." She looked at the two witches with hair ribbons. "If you see her causing trouble, alert me at once."

I knew then that I had to act fast and stealthily. Picking up the tray of ashes, I saw an orange and a potato. When the two girls' backs were turned, I snuck it in my uniform pocket and walked outside.

"Emptying the ashes on the ground, I lingered in the spooky darkness. Should I start down the street before Veronica and Angela or Mrs. Lambert came searching for me in my absence.

My whole body shook with anxiety. I hoped Spot would be a man of his word and return. if he didn't, there was no way I could find him again.

The cackles of Veronica and Angela rang from inside the kitchen. I felt my heart pounding in my ears.

This was it. All was ready. Before I could hesitate, I sprinted swiftly down the alley. I continued to hold the orange and potatoe tightly in my pocket. All my nerves were forgotten for a moment as I concentrated on getting as far away from the building as I could.

It wasn't long before I realized I had no idea where I was going: east, west, downtown or uptown towards Staten Island. Pumped with adrenaline, my mind spun. I took a breath on a street corner, and I realized I could still go back. No, I'm not going to go back.  
Then I remembered about the docks near the Hudson River. Spot might be there, ready to sell papers to the sailors.

I looked up at the street sign, 29th. I turned east and followed the smell of fish and the river.

The lamps from the boats and lighthouses along the Brooklyn docks made me relax a bit as I rested on the corner of 35th street. It was quiet. The ships had not pulled in yet. I searched the docks for some newsboys, thinking they may know Spot.

A cat-call rang from behind me. I spun around on my heel and was shocked to find the whistle was directed at me. The source was a newsboy, but it wasn't Spot. He was tall and thin, with glowing eyes. His ill-fitting, dirty shirt was long, and half was tucked into his patched pants. His hair was greasy and fell over his eyes.

"Free pape for a pretty girlie?" His lips curled into a mischievous grin as he held out the newspaper. Anyone who uses that much charm is bad news.

I decided not to pay any attention to him and not ask about Spot. Only too bad for me, cause four other guys soon joined him. They swarmed me. I glanced around, hoping someone would step in and help. But no one else seemed to be out. I realized I was to be the subject of their fun until the ships pulled in.

"Why's a lovely little lady like youseself out this late?" he snarled in my ear. His face was dangerously close to mine. His breath smelled terrible. Why me?

"Are youse gonna get off our territory or are we'se gonna 'ave to force ya?" he sneered.

I quickly stepped back, showing that I was on my way, but just at that moment a fist flew out of nowhere and knocked the boy square in the jaw. The boy staggered back, almost knocking into me. I moved to the side quickly.

Spot had a firm grip on some kind of cane he was carrying and glared at the boy. "Fang, ya rotten scabbah, get off my turf or I'll 'ave ta get some of my boys to join in soakin' ya."

The boy straightened and the two boys had a silent stare down. "I'll get youse, Spot." he spat, and then turned to me. "And youse," he said, pointing at me and jabbing me slightly. "Next time, fight yer own battles!" He motioned for his boys to leave with him. Spot mumbled curses at them as they passed by.

Once they were out of sight, he looked over at me. "Are ya okay?"

I stayed quiet and nodded.

"Hey, ya ran away; nice going! Geez, if I'se knew ya were plannin' on breakin' out, I'd have come and got ya sooner. Youse don't wanna be walkin' these streets alone around here."

"Were you really going to come back for me?"

"Of course! I'se was just gonna come get youse when I saw ya runnin' down the street like the bulls were after ya," he chuckled.

"Who was that guy?" I asked, looking in the direction the group had just left towards.

"Oh, Fang...don't worry about him. He's perfectly harmless, he's just troubled is all."

I huffed. He didn't seem harmless. But Spot didn't seem scared of him.

"Hey, fuhgeddabout him," Spot said, reassuringly. "Come on, I'll show ya how I sell."

The smell of saltwater and whiskey filled the air as the sailors stepped off the ships and rushed onto the dimly lit streets, walking in every direction.

I expected Spot to start selling, but instead he just rested against one of the dock posts and smirked at me.

"Well, go ahead, do your thing." I said, pointing to the crew.

"How about ya do it for me?" he said back, giving me a newspaper. "Ya wanna be a newsie, yeah?"

I reluctantly took the paper and excepted the challenge. My eyes landed on a captain with a collection of gold metals pinned to his uniform. "Him?" I asked Spot.

"Show me how it's done," he said teasingly, signaling the man was walking away.

"Sir,"

"Louder!" Spot shouted.

"Sir!" I yelled, but he didn't even seem to notice me.

"Care to buy the, uh," I looked at the paper. "Journal?" He walked past me without even bothering to listen to me. Spot whistled in disapproval.

"Fine!" I yelled to him. "You do it."

"Nah, it's more fun watchin' ya," he joked.

I sighed and tried to sell another paper.

"Journal!" I held the paper up over my head.

I looked over to see Spot practically rolling on the ground with laughter. Angry, I stormed over to him. "What?"

He couldn't even speak without laughing. "Nothin', I'se just... watchin' youse," was all he managed to say in between laughs.

I shoved the papers in his hands, causing him to be serious. "You do it. Sell your stupid papers."

"You wanna be a newsie or not? Be clever and tell 'em what they wanna know."

"And what's that?"

"Anythin'. Ya the only one who knows what's in the pape," he smirked. "Why don't ya start by actually findin' a headline?"

"You were watching the whole time," I spat furiously.

He opened the newspaper and gave it back to me.

"Says here some kid shot off a firework in Pennsylvania and it set fire to a garage." Spot seemed satisfied with this headline. "Flames engulf governor's mansion! Foul play suspected!"

"Okay," I shrugged, understanding finally.

I went back over to the crowd. "Extra, extra! Flames destroy governor's estate! Some suspect foul play!"

A short man with a dark beard grabbed the paper from my fingers. "Give me that!"

"Penny, mister!" I called back.

He tossed a penny to me, found the story in the paper, and shot me a look before walking away.

"It worked!" I ran back to Spot, showing him the penny. "I actually did it. I sold a paper."

"A pape," Spot corrected.

"Yeah, a pape," I tried it out.

"Not bad," he shrugged. "Ya see, headlines don't sell papes. Newsies sell papes."

After learning more techniques, Spot went back to selling some papers as well. His "made up headlines" were way more flowery and detailed than I could ever think of. I smiled a little when he used my "fire" story. After he sold all of his papers, er papes, he walked back over to me at the end of the docks.

"It's gettin' dark now." He put the change he earned in his pocket. "We should start headin' out."

"Where exactly?"

"Don't ya wanna sleep?!" he laughed, giving me a dime.

"What's this for?"

"A dime, your first salary," Spot smirked.

He headed back down the docks, and I followed him.

Spot led me down past some unfamiliar streets, then through a series of alleys, and finally to the heart of downtown Brooklyn. Just when I was going to ask if I could rest, he paused in front of St. Lucy's Church. I gazed up at the bell tower.

"Shh," he whispered, motioning for me to follow him.

We tip-toed through the church gate into the cemetary. Spot stopped at a small window that led to the cellar. He opened it and moved inside to the darkness. I sighed.

"Ya comin'?" he whispered.

With no other choice, I followed suit. It was deserted as far as I could tell. Spot was good at being quiet, unlike me. He turned a narrow corner and led me up an equally narrow, almost hidden, staircase.

At the top of the staircase was a small door with a latch on it. He unhitched it, opening the door to a tiny attic. Spot presently produced a match from his pocket and struck it, lighting up the petite room.

"So...this is where you sleep?" I asked after several moments of silence.

"No, this is where _ya_ will be sleeping," he said. "I figured it would be more appropriate for a girl instead of a boy's boardin' house."

Spot pulled out a patched quilt from a dusty chest and tossed it to me. I caught it as a cloud of dust engulfed around me from the quilt.

"I'll come back here to get you early tomorrow, and then we'll go to the distribution center." Spot made his way back to the small door.

"Wait a second." I pleaded.

He paused, hand on the door knob.

"I have so much I want to ask you."

"Later," he smirked.

Then with a small head nod, he closed the door behind him and was gone.

I encircled the quilt around me and crouched in a corner of the silent attic of St. Lucy's Church. It was tiny and confining, but really I wasn't frightened. I was relieved to be out of the orphanage and could help Grandpa.


	7. Manhattan Boys

The sun streamed in through the cracks in the roof. I sat up from a dreamless sleep and was awake when Spot knocked on the door. He still looked the same, even his clothes were still dirty and ink-stained.

It wasn't a long walk. St. Lucy's Church was positioned near the distribution center. Even though it was super early, there were clusters of newsboys waiting for their papers.

"There's a lot of different papes out there, but I sell the Journal. It's one of the yella kid," Spot explained, expecting I should know what all the meant.

"What's a yella kid?"

"No, yell-ow." Spot enunciated properly.

"Ah, yell-ow." I said stupidly.

"The leading papes in New York are Pulitzer's _World_ and Hearst's _Journal_, yeah?"

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I lied. "Yeah, yeah of course,"

"Anyways, they hate each other," Spot explained. "A couple of years ago, Hearst took the illustrator who drew comics to illustrate the yella kid for his pape. Ya know what I'se sayin'?"

I shook my head 'no.'

"Really? The yella kid: bald head and gets into trouble? Gosh, it's like youse from another time."

"You have no idea..." I muttered under my breath. He didn't seem to hear me.

"The comic is printed in color, and the kid is all dressed in yella. So Pulitzer kept printin' his comic strip even after Hearst was printin' the same cartoon, symbloizing their rivalry. So "yellow kid papes" is what the _World_ and the _Journal_ has become to us newsies. Personally, I think the comic is kinda stupid."

A bell rang, and a gate to the circulation office opened.

"I only have a nickle," I said to Spot as the line moved up quickly.

"If we're partners, we'll both sell the papers, and ya can pay me back the cost of what ya sell."

Why was Spot helping me? I'm sure if I asked, he would just make up something. Hey, maybe the kid was smart and figured having a chick next to him would attract customers, but Spot was too good of a newsie to need me.

It was suddenly our turn to buy papers.

"Hundred fifty papes." Spot clanked down seventy cents on the counter. The man behind the counter mumbled something horrible and then shoved the papers at him.

"A hundred fifty?" I asked as we walked to the street.

"And that's just the morning edition," he muttered.

It seemed like all the boys in the line knew Spot. Shouts of "Eh, how's it rollin', Spot?" and "Mornin'!" chorused around as we walked by. But he never greeted any of them back, but just nodded to them.

"So you like working alone?" I wondered aloud.

"Eh, sometimes."

I tried to not to question it further.

"You don't go to school?"

"The streets are my classroom. I'd hate being cooped up in some dusty school-room all day."

Spot was a fast walker. He was on a mission, and I didn't want to interfere.

"First thing useful to know about sellin' papes is to have a good sellin' spot. The boys, and some girls, are real territorial on these streets. Every newsie has their spot. Most of the girls like to sell by the bridge or in Central Park."

"So those are good spots?"

"Nah, it depends. If ya sellin' the morning edition, I'd hit Delancey Street. Afternoon, sell next to restaurants. And at night, the docks. I like to keep moving, but it's easy for me since I sell alone usually."

"Well, you got me now."

He paused. "I guess ya right. But you'll be independent soon enough."

I wanted to take that as a compliment, but I also didn't want to leave Spot. If I was as bad at selling as I was yesterday, I should be selling with Spot for at least a year before I'm ready to stand on my own.

The journalists and bankers crowded Delancey Street like bees to a flower. They walked quickly towards the towering buildings. Spot took action.

Spot wasn't all in their faces like the younger newsies were. He pushed back his shoulders, held the newspapers up high and shouted out a headline with self-assurance. His stature seemed to attract the businessmen, who seemed to avoid the younger newsies. They quickly bought their papers from Spot and hurried along their way.

As the businessmen disappeared into office buildings, the other newsboys began to turn their attention to me selling with Spot.

"Who's the chick?" one newsboy sneered at Spot.

"What's it to ya?" Spot waved him away.

"She with you?"

"Yeah, never ya mind."

"I wouldn't be sellin' with partners, especially now." the newsboy said.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"The 'Hattan boys, didn't ya hear?"

Spot shook his head 'no.'

"Talkin' about striking, first our Brooklyn Trolley strikers and now Manhattan newsboys."

"Striking?"

"Yeah, uh, I'se just trying to sell as many papes as I can before the strike reaches Brooklyn. Anyway, Jackey-boy's on his way. Saw him headin' across the bridge with two others." the newsboy said as he hurried over to a wealthy man stepping out of a carriage.

I stared over at Spot. He looked thoughtful. In fact, I'd never seen him think so hard.

"Don't hurt yourself," I said lightly.

"We got to go."

"Where?"

"The docks. 'Hattan boys'll be waitin'." Spot said to himself.

I ran to catch up with Spot, who was already walking. I remembered him saying something about the "'Hattan boys" but having no clue as to who they were. As we stepped onto the wooden docks, Spot climbed some crates and motioned for me to stay there. He looked around and spotted three figures reaching the docks. I looked up at him. He smirked something. I was hesitant.

Spot noticed my nervous expression. "You'll be alright," Spot laughed. "They ain't gonna bite ya, definitely not the 'Hattan boys."

I nodded and looked down the docks. Sure enough, there was a band of about three boys, from ages ten to seventeen, walking toward us. I wondered what it was about them that could make them different from the Brooklyn boys.

The one who seemed to be leading them had dirty blonde hair and a black cowboy hat.

"Well, if it ain't Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-quick." Spot smirked. The boy looked up, obviously Jack-be-nimble, Jack-be-whatever.

"So I see you've moved up in the world, Spot. Got yourself a river view and everything?" The joking and playful way he said it made me relax a bit. Spot hopped down from the crates and they spit shook. I grimaced.

"Hey, Boots, how's it rollin'?" Spot asked a younger boy with them.

A boy of about eleven stepped forward cautiously. "Yeah, gotcha 'couple of real good shooters here." He opened his palm revealing some marbles.

Spot raised his eyebrows and picked up one inspecting it. Yeah," he said, nodding approvingly. He took out the slingshot in his back pocket and fiddled the marble into the little launching basket. "So, uh, Jackey-boy," he began. "I've been hearing things from little boidies."

I frowned. He called his messenger newsies "birds." What a strange cat.

"Yeah?" Jack asked, crossing his arms.

"Things from Harlem, Queens," Okay, now he was just making up stuff. I watched as he launched the marble. It hit an empty beer bottle, shattering it. Okay, that was almost cool, I had to admit. "All over." He walked around Jack. "They're chirpin' in my ear: Jackey-boy's newsies is playin' like they going on strike."

"Yeah, well we are." Jack said sternly.

"But we're not playing, we are going on strike." the third boy mumbled. He looked about Jack's age, and unlike Jack, looked extremely terrified and was dressed in rather clean clothes.

"Oh yeah, yeah?" Spot asked in his face. He shook his head in disbelief. "What is this Jackey-boy? Some kind of walkin' mouth?"

The boy looked shocked and turned to look at Jack for help. Jack clamped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Yeah it's a mouth, but a mouth with a brain. And if you got half of one you're gonna listen to what he's gotta say." Spot nodded as if to say 'fair enough,' and sat down on one of the crates, crossing his arms. Jack motioned for the boy to go on. "Tell 'im, Dave."

The boy, or 'Dave', began to speak again. "Well we started the strike, but we can't do it alone. So we've been talking to other newsies all around the city-"

"Yeah, so they told me." Spot cut him off. "But what'd they tell you?"

The boy swallowed. "Well, they're waitin' to see what Spot Conlon's doing. See, you're the key. That Spot Conlon is the most famous and respected newsie in all of New York, and probably everywhere else. And if Spot joins, then they'll join. So you gotta join us, because...well you gotta."

Spot looked over at Jack and nodded. "Yeah, you're right Jack: brains. But I got brains too, and more than just half of one." He stood and brought his cane close to Dave's face. "How do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at you with a club? How do I know you got what it takes to win?"

Jack sighed. "'Cause, I'm tellin' ya, Spot."

Spot looked from Dave to him. "That ain't good enough, Jackey-boy. You gotta show me."

Jack looked upset. "The Staten Island boys were right, though. Their circulation manager was cheatin' them and gave them a stack of papes twenty short of what they paid for. They had to soak 'em."

Spot leaned forward. "Look, I don't need a strike. My newsies gotta eat. They gotta pay board."

"But, Spot, ever since the war, it's been raised to six cents a ten. It's different news these days, but we'se still payin' the same amount," Jack argued.

"I know what we pay, Jack," sneered Spot.

"It's Pulitzer and Hearst as well. Both aren't lowering the price," added the eleven year old boy.

Jack then took notice of me, and his smile faded.

"Spot, why the dame?"

I didn't say anything.

"Why the interest?" Spot countered.

"I'se takin' all my boys up to City Hall Park tomorrow. Queen's newsies are going to. We'll make a decision about the strike there." Jack took a seat without recognizing my presence. I kept standing.

"We need to stand on our own no matter what," the eleven year old chimed in.

"We always have, Boots." Spot said.

"It seems like all boroughs will be on their own even if we strike." Jack seemed to be the leader of the 'Hattan boys, and they listened to his every word.

"Will enough newsies want to strike?" Spot challenged.

"There'll be about a hundred boys at City Hall Park. That's gotta be enough to strike. I think us 'Hattans should lead the cause, rally the others around us," Dave added.

"We ain't leadin' anything just yet, David." Jack said, sighing. "But imagine it, Spot, if you got your Brooklyn boys behind us, even Jersey."

"What about the bulls?" Spot took a pair of Dice from Boot's hand that were used as shooters and shook them in his hand.

"They're all focussed on the trolley strike to care about us." Boots said.

Spot nodded, thinking it over.

"So, you with us?" Jack asked.

Spot rolled the dice: snake eyes.

"If ya can prove you have what it takes." Spot answered.

The boys turned and stared at me. Spot saw my uncomfortable expression and quickly spat in his hand, shaking hands with Jack. "City Hall Park," Spot said.

As the three walked off, I finally voiced my worries.

"Spot, I can't strike. I have to earn money."

His face grew serious and concerned.

"As much as I know you're right, Hailey, I gotta do this. I really do wanna help ya, but I've known these boys for a long time. If I don't strike with 'em, the Brooklyn-Manhattan alliance will be terminated. But youse a girl. They ain't gonna try to soak ya."

"But I can't sell without you."

"Imagine though, if it works we can get the price back where it was: fifty cents a ten. We'd make two dollars a month..." He seemed to lose his train of thought throughout all of this.

"Spot."

"I get it, I'se sorry I got you into all this."

"_I_ don't get it, though." I stopped myself, still in shock that Spot was already agreeing to their strike. "Who were those boys?"

"They're my allies from across the bridge. Most know them around here as the 'Hatten boys. The one with the cowboy hat is Jack. David Jacobs, the one with the blue eyes, he's actually got a family on the East Side. He had to drop out of school, a smart kid. He's got a little button of a kid brother who never shuts up and is the smallest one. He's a loyal little kid, though. Ya could tell him a secret, and he'd take it to the grave. Then there's Boots."

"Why 'Boots?'"

"He used to shoe-shine shoes before he was a newsie."

"And the other boys?"

"I don't know all of them, but there's Kid Blink, another sharp one. But Kid's finished with school, like me. The annoying one is Snipeshooter. He's always got somethin' to say, even if ya got know idea what he's blabberin' about. Then there's Racetrack Higgins. He's a lanky guy and could be one of the best newsies if he wanted to be, but he spends more time at the races than he does sellin'. And then there's a lot of others. Sorry I didn't introduce ya, but that's not how it normally works."

"How does it work, then?"

"Eh, ya gotta prove your worth. But ya shouldn't worry about that. Youse ain't gonna be strikin'. They're are other papes ya can sell without me, like the _Sun_."

Spot slung the stack of papers over his shoulder. "I guess I just got one afternoon to show ya the ropes of bein' a good newsie."

I followed Spot to sell papers, forgetting about the up-coming strike.

Spot was correct. Selling papers in the afternoon was much more fun than any school lesson. The New York streets were alive with people more interesting than any school book.

Wandering through the market with our papers, Spot was easily distracted by the shoestring sellers and the fiddle players on the corner. Sometimes he would dance along to a fiddle player, bringing extra tips to the fiddle players hat.

My favorite were the hokey-pokey carts, selling ice cream.

"_O che poco_!" an Italian peddler shouted from his cart with a striped awning. I quickly translated his phrase to 'how little.'

Little boys rushed to his cart with wide eyes. In a lively manner, he scooped the ice cream and placed it on a clean white sheet of paper, handing it to a boy with a nickle in return.

Other peddlers flocked his cart to get a relief from the hot sun.

I licked my lips enviously, watching them. Being Italian, I know I should've had gelato before in my life; but I haven't.

"I've never had any."

"Ya never had _gelato_?!" Spot said in an adorably awful fake accent.

Before I could do anything more, Spot handed the man a nickle and received ice cream in return.

"For ya, my lady," he said, bowing and giving me the treat.

"Really? But you can't afford..." Spot hushed me by shoving a wooden stick with a scoop of ice cream on the end into my mouth.

The flavor melted from cool ice to warm cream.

"Mmm...that's amazing!" I said.

"See? The streets ain't so bad!" Spot sing-songed.

He grabbed my hand and we took off laughing at the businessmen who tried to work their way around the crowds. We sang along with the peddlers as they drew customers to their carts. We even were succesful at scaring the private school boys in their spoiled rich outfits by shooting marbles from Spot's slingshot at them.

When we reached the bridge, Spot brought my attention to three girls about my age selling papers.

"Those are the Harlem girls."

Instantly, I felt a twinge of envy.

"They're good newsgirls. They attract a lot of customers."

"Do I need," I tried not to sound to desperate, "to sell with them?"

Spot laughed. "No. Ya got nice eyes. That should do."

I smiled a bit. The rest of the day consisted with more selling around town. When Spot got his hundred papers for the evening edition, there were even more rumors circulating about the City Hall Park meeting and the strike. Spot just subtly ignored them.

At the docks, he let me hawk some of the papes. But as evening turned to night, we walked back downtown to the church.

"We didn't sell out last ten."

"That happens a lot lately, even with two newsies sellin'."

"Then what do you do?"

"Sometimes I head over to the train yards. They'll buy the rest of the papes for a few cents to wrap fish in."

"Oh."

"Ever since the end of the war, the boys have been takin' it hard. We didn't make a big deal about six cents a ten during the war, we was sellin' so good, but now it actually counts. We just assumed they would lower the price back to where it was. Now Pulitzer and Hearst just want the money, takin' the food out of our mouths. That's why the Manhattan boys wanna strike, and now Queens, too."

"I get it. It's unfair."

Spot walked ahead.

"Is the Brooklyn Lodging House where you sleep?" I asked suddenly when we arrived at the church.

"Sometimes."

"Do you have a family?"

"Everyone's got someone."

As we opened the church gate, I noticed it was lit up inside. Spot turned to me and smirked. Whatever was inside made him excited.

"Come on," he whispered.

We climbed into the attic, but what had been a silent dark church last night was now lit up. From below came the most heavenly sound I've ever heard.

"What is that?" I asked, closing my eyes.

"The boys' choir."

The voices of the young boys blended into one in perfect harmony was beautiful.

Spot leaned back against the blanket, placing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. I mimicked his lead. We sat in silence, listening to the enchanting siren-like voices.

"They come here twice a month."

"It's peaceful. I didn't know you liked music," I teased him, smiling.

He opened his eyes. "I like a lot of different things. My mother used to sing to me every night, and that's how come I like it so much."

I smiled a little at that. "You don't always wanna be on the streets, do you?"

"Nah, I plan on movin' back to Ireland when I'm a man."

"Ireland?"

"Yeah, it's where I'm from." Spot's eyes looked distant, like he was trying to remember something. "I still remember the green landscapes and rocky hill sides." He smiled. "Not that I don't love Brooklyn."

"Could you really leave New York?"

"Of course I could, but I like it here on the streets for now. Life back in the old country is going to have to wait."

The choir continued to sing a song in Latin.

"What do you dream about doing?" he smirked over at me.

I shrugged. "Getting my father out of jail." I said, remembering to say father.

Spot's face fell. "Oh God, I'se sorry..."

"No, it's okay. You didn't mean to."

"I feel self-absorbed, now. I'll take you to the Auburn tomorrow. But I ain't lettin' ya go in, unless ya wanna get shipped back to the asylum."

I nodded in understanding. We continued to listen to the angelic voices. I finally blurted, "Why are you helping me, Spot?"

His eyes looked elsewhere. The choir finished and it grew silent. "We're friends," he said nonchalantly.

Quickly, he sat up and walked to the door.

"You don't have to tell me where you're going. I just wanna know you'll be safe," I finally spoke.

"Don't worry about me, girlie. I'se tough."

I wanted him to stay, but I was too exhausted to move. Spot closed the door, and the attic was left in darkness.

I'd never worked a whole day outside in the hot sun before, and I was tired. I wondered how long I would last in the streets, for I wasn't tough like Spot. But the strike promised new things for tomorrow.


	8. The Auburn

"I ain't letting you go," Spot insisted, eyes storming over with frustration at having to argue this for the fourth time.

"I just wanna see what's gonna happen," I begged. "And you can't force me to do anything. I've seen where City Hall Park is."

Spot groaned and ran his fingers through his hair under his cap. "I don't know what these boys are gonna do. It could get rough."

"If that happens, I'll leave."

City Hall Park was chock full of newsboys. One older boy in particular was standing like a statue on the City Hall steps.

As we neared the building, it became clear that he was not going to move. Spot snickered into his palm.

"What is it?"

"Delancey is lookin' like Horris Greeley."

"Who?"

Spot pointed to a marble statue at the other side of the park.

"He's a famous newspaper figure. Delancey's far from famous," Spot chuckled.

"Who is Delancey?"

"Oscar Delancey, a guy with a small, cold heart. It's known that he soaks younger newsies."

"Younger newsies? He soaks them for no reason?" I was shocked.

"Well, he ain't huggin' 'em. At least, we don't think." Spot winked. I giggled like a little girl.

As we blended into the crowd, eleven year old Boots started giving a speech.

"It was like this. We went to the guy that sells the papes, and we tells him that he gotta be two for a cent or nothin'. He said 'what are ya gonna do about it?' I'se told him we'se was gonna strike. He said 'go ahead ans strike.' And here we is."

A boy by the name of Skittery jumped up next to Boots to help explain. "The boys of Staten thought the _World and Journal _circulation managers was cheatin' 'em. So they gathered and tipped wagons over, running off with all the papes and chasing the managers."

Newsies cheered loudly.

"But it wasn't until the bulls got 'em that they realized who the real cheater was!" Skittery shouted. "Pulitzer and Hearst is stealin' food from our mouths and shelter from us while he lays his head on three satin pillows."

Oscar Delancey rolled his eyes. "All youse is gonna fail! I'm gonna go get my Uncle Wiesel and he's gonna have you all in the Refuge by suppertime!" he yelled, storming off.

"See," Spot whispered to me, "a real son of a..." he caught himself.

I smirked and crossed my arms. "You wanna finish your sentence there?"

"No, I don't." Spot said, pretending to be scared of me.

The boys hollered curses at Oscar and raised their fists in the air. I admired their passion. I wondered if growing up on the streets made them this way.

Maybe I could have done something to save my grandpa.

Spot was a tough cookie to figure out. He insisted he had to roll with these boys, but he always made side comments to me about how they had to "prove it to him."

Another puzzling thing about him was the fact that he never reacted about the increased prices until the 'Hattan boys said anything, but even if he didn't complain as much, I knew he still felt the same way they did.

Jack shot up beside Boots on the marble statue. "So what's the verdict? Are we just gonna take what they give us? Or are we gonna strike?"

"Strike!" echoed the boys.

"It's agreed, then. We strike, and we'll win!" shouted Jack.

The boys whooped and hollered in agreement.

"We all on strike!" Jack cheered. "Anyone who sells the Journal or World tommora is a scab, and youse have every right to tear up their papes and throw them in the Hudson."

A loud wave of cheers sounded from the park, and onlookers shot them strange looks.

Jack took action quickly. "Davey and Boots take the demands to Pulitzer and Hearst, and let 'em know what we're fightin' for."

Davey nodded.

"Spread the word to Harlem, Brooklyn, Queens, and Jersey!" shouted Jack.

I was very amused. I assumed they learned what to say and do from the Trolley strikers.

"So, will Hearst and Pulitzer listen to them?" I asked Spot.

"Eh, don't know. I guess we'll find out!" shouted Spot in amazement. "First, I gotta get you outta here."

immediately, the 'Hattan boys appeared and Jack took Spot by the shoulder.

"We gonna be organizin' a strike committee," Jack said.

"I gotta take care of somethin' first, then I'll come." Spot slid from Jack's grip.

The boys glared at me. It was clear they were not used to Spot turning them down, and they knew I was the reason.

"We'll meet you over at the usual meetin' spot," Jack finally spoke, and the boys shuffled back into the crowd.

"Why can't you go with them?"

"I promised I'd take ya to the Auburn," he said, taking me away from the newsies.

As we walked out of the park, I looked over at the bronze statue of Horace Greeley. Written underneath was an inscription: "I am the inferior of any man whose rights I trample underfoot." It was a magnificent statue, and I was sure that without having slipped through time, I would have never noticed it was ever there if I went to New York.

"Come on." Spot guided me forward, desperately trying to duck around the swarm of newsies.

Every so often, Spot called out news of the strike and passed out flyers. I was a bit confused because of what he had told Jack earlier about staying out of the strike for now. Still, people handed Spot some change to support the cause.

My excitement faded as soon as we reached the Auburn. It was everything Spot hinted it was, a military-looking stronghold. The bricks lining the building were said to be splattered in blood every time an execution of a prisoner occurred, so they named it "the Auburn" for the color it made. Legend had it that you can see the handprints of one of the most notorious prisoners on the wall of the building, smeared in blood. Spot mentioned that the place was crawling with corrupt cops and that it was a place you never wanted to end up in.

"Okay, I happen to know a guy in there. And that's how I figured out your pa was there. They allow visitors, but I'm worried that if we walk in there and ya say who ya are, they'll be suspicious and start askin' questions, and then ship ya back to the orphanage. This is the first place the orphanage would come askin' about ya."

"So what't the plan?" I asked him.

"Well, at least now ya know where he is." Spot gestured to a courthouse nearby. "He'll be tried during court sessions over there. I guess I could go in and figure out when that'll be."

"I want to visit him terribly..."

"Oh, shit..." Spot mumbled under his breath as he backed away from me.

I followed his gaze and found the reason for his sudden shrink back. The 'Hattan boys were walking across Elmor Street, coming our way. Their arms were crossed tightly, they looked serious. It was all business now. Spot stood between the newsies and me.

"There a problem, Spot?"

"Nope."

"What's happenin'?"

Spot chewed on the inside of his mouth, then spoke reluctantly. "Her pa's inside the Auburn."

"Well that's a God awful place," spat a boy the others called Racetrack. "My pa was there three years until he was released. He said it was hell."

I gulped.

"That was six years ago. The place is eight years old now. How bad can it be?" asked a little boy I think called Snipe-something.

"So, she yer friend now?" Jack asked, unfolding his arms.

"Yeah," Spot said, unfolding his arms too.

I tried to hide my smile at this.

Jack walked closer over to me, and looked me up and down. Spot stayed close by. Surprisingly, Jack spat on his hand and offered it out to me. "Then youse one of us now," he said.

It looked like Spot wanted to say something, but he kept quiet. Without thinking, I spat in my hand and shook Jack's outstretched hand, feeling accepted.

"We won't treat youse like a girl."

"i don't want you to," I fired back.

The boys laughed. "You might wanna keep an eye on this one, Spot." Jack smiled approvingly at me, and then at Spot. "She knows what she's doing. Alright, let's get ya inside," Jack said to me.

"What? Really?" I asked excitedly.

"No," Spot objected. "They'll be lookin' for her."

"No they won't," Jack huffed.

"You can get me inside?" I asked Jack eagerly. Spot stepped between us.

"No, it's too risky and too dangerous."

"She's one of us now, so eithers youse get her in or I will."

Spot glanced at me, and I made a puppy-dog face and begged. "Please?" I felt like a little girl trying to ask for the last cookie.

"Whatever," Spot buckled.

The boys planned a distraction, but for the plan to go smoothly, I had to dress like a boy.

"Race, give her your cap and trousers," Jack commanded.

"Um, what?!" Racetrack shot back.

"She can sneak in easier lookin' like a boy, and youse looks like a good fit."

"Yeah and what am I gonna wear, her dress?" The newsies laughed.

Jack rolled his eyes and grabbed Racetrack and whipped off his cap, tossing it to me. Racetrack muttered a few colorful remarks in Italian and then took off his trousers, standing on the corner in his dingy white long-johns.

Racetrack's clothes were actually a pretty good fit. I tucked the dress into the pants and my hair underneath the cap.

Spot chuckled, "That look ain't bad on ya."

Three police guards stood at the front of the Auburn, keeping watch. I felt my heart pounding in my ears as we neared them. They had on very serious expressions. Slowly, one of the officer's eyes started to look at me. I breathed in sharply.

And then _CRASH_!

Behind us, Jack collided with some newsie called Kid Blink in a fistfight full of swearing and accusations. The police officers rushed over to break them up.

"Should we do something?" I asked.

"Shh!" Spot covered my mouth with his hand. "It's part of the plan. They're our distraction."

I felt a little silly as we hurried quickly up the stairs of the prison. Inside, there was little light. Spot found my hand in his and hurried with me along the hallway. I guessed we were looking for the jail cells. But in this labyrinth, it was hard to tell.

Suddenly, Spot took a quick detour into an office of some kind. A policeman with a large belly and square jaw stood up quickly as we entered.

"What on Earth-!"

"It's just me!" Spot lifted his cap up, revealing his face.

The man erupted with hearty laughter. "You gave me a fright, little Conlon."

I smiled...'little Conlon?' Haha.

"Whose ya friend?"

"Shadow," Spot said without a beat. I hoped I would pass as a boy.

The man seemed to really take no notice of me afterwards as he walked over to Spot.

"How can I help ya?"

"The guy I saw earlier - I need to see him again."

"Does he owe ya money? This man doesn't have any on him."

"Nah, he's got information." Spot confirmed.

"I'll take care of it," the cop said sinisterly, pounding his fist into his hand.

"No!" I blurted out. I then dropped my voice to sound like a boy. "No. We need to hear it ourselves."

The cop thought for a minute. "Okay."

He went to his desk and grabbed to pieces of paper and then handed them to us.

"Hang onto these," he commanded.

I looked at the paper. It was a visitor pass, the name tag was blank. I hoped to keep it that way.

Soon, we were in the most gruesome place, in the depths of the Auburn, covered in grime, humid air and a bleak feeling. We climbed down the stairs to the men's jail, a narrow hall with a tall ceiling and five floors of wrought iron cells. I was careful not to touch anything as we reached the second floor.

"Second floor is for the killers." The officer explained. "Here we are. Step lively."

The three of us paused in front of a tiny cell. I peered in through the bars but my grandpa was unrecognizable.

"Contadino!" Spot shouted.

Suddenly, a grey figure climbed from the darkness. He was thin and filthy. His eyes were sunken in, his brow deeply lined in thought, his whiskers uncombed. He shuffled towards the bars. My heart sank. I couldn't cry now and break my disguise. If this was the story Grandpa was trying to tell me about for so many years, I felt awful for ignoring him. But now I had a chance to save him.

"Okay, there's your man." the cop made his way back down the stairs. "Don't stay up here too long, visiting hours end at 7:00 and I don't want you two catching a fever."

"Thanks, Officer Duncan!" Spot called back.

When the officer was completely gone, Spot continued, "Giovanni Contadino?"

"_Was _do you want, boy?" My grandpa's voice was cold and harsh.

I took off my hat, letting my hair fall to my shoulders.

Grandpa was confused and looked closer at me. His eyes widened upon realization. "Hailey?"

"Papa."

"Hailey, _was_...what..."

"I'm gonna get you out of here."

"How?" he sneezed. "I sick. Very sick."

"When is your trial?"

Grandpa shrugged. "Several days? Maybe week?"

"What can I do to help?" I asked.

Grandpa was quiet; then he shrugged again. "_Niente._"

He sneezed again. Spot took my arm.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked Spot in a whiney voice that sounded like a little girl complaining.

"Lot's of folks die in hear from influenza."

"No," I said flatly. I didn't want to believe it.

"There has to be someway I can help."

"What is your name, boy?" Grandpa turned and asked Spot.

Spot removed his cap and stood up straight. "Aidan Conlon, sir." I smiled internally. Spot's name had finally been revealed.

"Take care of her," Grandpa spoke. Then he turned to me. "Be good, a good girl."

"No, I don't want to say goodbye forever."

"Oh, Hailey." Grandpa reached through the bars and touched the tears streaming down my face. "_Sono _glad you are okay."

"You can't leave, Papa."

"You boys there!" shouted a guard from down the hallway.

Spot turned to me. "Quick! Put your cap back on." Hurriedly, I stuffed my hair back under my cap.

"Take this. Get some food." Spot said quickly, giving my grandpa three dollars out of his pocket. "We gotta go."

"But..." I began.

"Come on."

The guard's voice was replaced by several footsteps growing louder. We had to hurry. I took one last glance at my grandpa. He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "_Ti amo._"

"I love you too." I choked over the words as Spot dragged me by the arm back through the labyrinth and away from the advancing flood of cops.

The voices and shouting grew closer with every turn through the cells, but we were smaller and moved faster than the men did. Finally, Spot and I were back at Officer Duncan's office, and then finally out the door.

Spot and I ran so fast across the street, my I felt my legs being lifted off the ground. The crowds on the streets hid us from the cops who scanned the people from the steps of the Auburn.

Spot paused to catch his breath. I thought I had left mine inside.

"Ya alright?" he panted.

I nodded, folding my arms so he wouldn't know they were trembling.

"I knew it was a bad idea..." Spot sighed.

"No, it's fine. I just don't wanna talk about it right now."

Many feelings were churning inside me, but the most felt was fear. I didn't know what to do now. My only option I could think of was the orphanage, but I wasn't about to make that my only choice.

I looked over at Spot. He stared at the ground.

"So, who was the cop?"

Spot looked up at me suddenly.

"Bill Duncan. He worked with my pa."

"Your father was a cop?"

"_is _a cop. Near Central Park."

The 'Hattan boys, busy handing out flyers on the corner of Middle Street, cheered when they saw us.

"Ya made it!" Snipe-shooter? called, rushing over.

I nodded.

They could tell by the looks on Spot and my faces that it wasn't good news, and so Jack changed the subject, taking me by the shoulder. "So looks like we gotta new boy. We should initiate."

The newsies cheered. I looked to Spot, who shook his head.

"She ain't one of us."

For the first time, I felt anger toward Spot. "You can't tell me what to do."

"Hailey," Spot whispered, pulling me aside. "I'm only tryin' to explain to them that ya can't strike."

I looked deep into Spot's blue eyes. I knew he was trying to help me, but after the orphanage and the way Grandpa looked at me in the Auburn, I was sure that the kind of help Spot was suggesting was not the kind of help I needed. I was tired of being afraid, and these boys were the most confident people I had ever known.

"I want to be one of you," I stated flatly.

Spot glared at me with an icy gleam. "Ya don't even know what you're sayin'."

I nudged Spot aside.

"I'm one of you guys now," I said. "I can do anything you can do better, and I'm ready to strike."

Jack smiled at Spot. "Looks like youse found yourself some trouble."

Spot, boiling with anger, remained bitterly silent.

"But it works, cause we all about trouble." Jack smiled. "The rest of the boys are gonna be talkin' about the strike and makin' plans. So should Brooklyn."

Spot shook his head. "Youse gotta prove it."

After much debate, the 'Hattan boys agreed.

"Let's go to Tibby's. We'll play craps for who pays." Jack said.

The boys cheered.

Spot grabbed my wrist when the others weren't looking. "Let's just go."

"Why?" I whispered back.

"Look, ya not one of them."

"You mean I'm not with you. You're with them."

"'Cause I gotta be."

"If I don't, you don't."

Spot grit his teeth. Something about this made him uneasy. "Ya a girl. God made you that way."

"If boys' clothes are good enough to get me past the Auburn guards, they'll do for the rest. Besides, I have nowhere else to go."

Spot thought for a moment. "I show ya a good place, for a girl. I'd show ya now if ya want." I could tell he was trying to think of every way to convince me not to strike with the 'Hattans.

"Spot, after seeing my father like that...I got nothing. If they want to be my family now, I want to be theirs."

"They ain't your family, Hailey. These boys can be...they're not good."

"Let me decide that."

I wrenched my hand out of his grip and walked in my trousers and cap to join the newsies.


	9. One of You

"Craps. It's a game of dice and luck," Racetrack explained to me, now dressed in an interesting replacement of clothes, a stolen messenger boy's jacket and a potato-sack skirt.

I'm sure he was expecting me to give his clothes back to him after we left the Auburn, but Jack insisted I keep them and declare them my new clothes while adopting Spot's nickname for me, Shadow - cause of the way I had been following him whenever the 'Hattan boys saw me.

Racetrack, or "Race", took the dice in his hand and rolled them on our table at Tibby's Diner.

The second to explain the rules of the game was David. "Seven or eleven, that's good. You want that."

Spot rolled his eyes as he sat on the edge of the booth and muttered something in a language I couldn't understand. "Don't play any games of chance with these cheats."

"That's only 'cause you got no luck, Spot," Race laughed.

"And ya spent all your money at Sheepshead. I say we're even."

Race snarled.

"Look, boys," Jack started in, "tommora we gonna set out our demands, fifty cents a hundred like it was before the war."

"I don't get it. Why did they raise it to sixty cents?" I asked.

"Cause they could," huffed Spot. "You see, during the war, everyone was buyin' papes to find out what was happenin' every hour. Pulitzer and Hearst were lickin' it up like dogs, puttin' out extra editions and everythin'. Some say they started the war themselves, just so they could make more money. Since they were compettitive with each other, neither of them was willin' to raise the price of the pape on the customer-"

"So they raised it on the newsie," Jack cut Spot off, fuming with anger.

"Why didn't anyone say anything then?" I wondered.

The boys murmered and grumbled.

"We were makin' money then, sellin' all the papes, rarely made under ten cents. I think we all just assumed it would go back down to two for a penny," explained Kid; an eyepatch covered his eye. "Now we never know how many papes we gonna sell, and if we buy too many - well, that's just our fault, and Weasel tells us to 'suck it up and eat them.'"

The waitress slammed down fresh, steaming hotdogs on our table. It was a mouth-watering sight to see those delicious sausages tucked in bread rolls. I realized I hadn't eaten since the orphanage. We reached for them in a haste.

"Just 'cause we're striking doesn't mean we should be starvin'," Davey's little brother, Les, said as he stuffed the meat and bun into his mouth.

I paused. I didn't want to take the hotdog if I couldn't pay. But as I considered and battled with my growling stomach, Spot shoved it my way.

"Eat," he demanded.

"I can't-"

He cut me off. "Eat. I _am_ lucky, no matter what they say."

Sure enough, Spot was lucky. He threw two sevens in a row and saved us from paying for our meal.

As we walked back to the church, Spot was silent.

"What's up with you?" I asked suddenly.

Spot shot me a funny look.

"I mean, are you okay?"

He merely shrugged. I was still following him when a couple passed and the woman threw a harsh glance my way. I instinctively wiped my face and looked to make sure my shirt wasn't unbuttoned or anything. Spot nudged my shoulder.

"It's your clothes."

I had completely forgotten that I was still wearing Race's hand-me-downs and was perfectly content to never take them off. They were more easy to get around in than the dress.

"You don't like me tagging along with the 'Hattans."

"No," he asnwered flatly.

"Why?"

"_I _don't like taggin' along with the 'Hattans." he said, feeling that was a good enough explanation. He was certainly leader-like.

"But they were the first guys who ran to you when they heard about the strike, and you said yourself, you're allied with them." I countered.

"'Cause I have to be."

"Why? What is with this 'have to be' crap?"

"I owe them. Look," he turned to me and tipped his cap up so I could see in his eyes that he was serious, "the Reformers are right when they say the streets are no place for a girl. They're rough out here, so ya have to be a gang. I'm pretty tough, but even I'm not stupid enough to walk around without allies."

"But it's not just that. You said you owe them."

"I did."

"And you're not going to tell me why?"

"Nah."

"So I suppose you're not going to tell me about that key around your neck, either?"

"Ya never asked about that." His eyebrows lifted.

"Wait, so you are going to tell me?"

He paused, _torturing_ mewith that smirk. "No."

"Gosh!" I huffed.

He laughed and then stopped abruptly, his eyes were fixed straight ahead.

"What?" I turned in the direction his gaze only to see five newsboys approaching. They weren't the 'Hattans. As they got closer, I could see the towering leader and his dripping greasy hair. It was Fang.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" he asked, looking at me and licking his lips.

"A little girl and a streetrat," said one of his gang members, signaling that Spot was the "streetrat."

"I thought you walked the streets alone, Spot?"

"I remember I said I didn't take up with vermin - that'd be ya of course." Spot confirmed.

Fang flung his body forward, a threat. Spot didn't flinch.

"So I hears they whisperin' strike? What says you?" One of the gang members eyed me as the conversation between Fang and Spot escalated. At that moment I remembered I wanted Spot to teach me how to fight.

"I'll probably strike." Spot said calmly.

"Pity," Fang mumbled.

"Better not let 'Hattan hear ya say that."

"Why? We ain't scared of Jackey-boy. I'm sure youse all will fail. Besides, we'll have muscle on our side. And anyway, you couldn't fight. You're outnumbered: five to one." Fang then looked over at me. "Oh, I sorry. Five to one and a half."

"Yeah, and the odds aren't exactly in your favor." Spot replied cooly.

"Everything okay over here?" A voice came from behind us.

Jack and the 'Hattan boys moved up to stand with Spot and me. Fang slowly backed away. I didn't know if it was from fear or to be closer to his boys. Fang whistled in disaproval. "Saved by the cavalry." He turned to Jack. "Ah, Jack, the Refuge-breakout. Long time."

"Ain't it great that it wasn't long enough." Jack cracked his knuckles.

"I'm lookin' forward to tomorra, Jack, when me and my boys get the pickin' from the beautiful New York streets." Fang stretched out his hands like he was embracing the immense city.

"Youse gonna have a thousand fists starin' right back at cha," Jack interjected.

Fang laughed. "Everyone's out for themselves. It's how it's always been. Even Spot knows that. Don't cha, Spot?"

I didn't like Fang singling out Spot. It made me aware that they all knew way more about him than I did.

"This time it's gonna be different," Spot began. "We are all gonna have a union."

"Who ya tryin' to cheat, pal?" Fang spat back. "The money youse lose will be more than a penny a ten. And the money I make, I'll be dinin' with Bill and Joe."

"Hard to sell shredded papes, Fang." said Jack. "And we got David on our side. Got smarts."

"That freak? I ain't scared of Jacobs." Fang spat on the ground. "I'm markin' ya, Spot. Fair fight tomorra. Youse better not have ya girl too close. She gonna get hurt too." Fang pointed his finger at me. In an instant, I hacked up some spit and spat at Fang. I've done it to my brother Matt many times. It landed below his eye on his upper cheek.

The 'Hattan boys roared with laughter and jeers. Fang wiped the spit off with a sleeve that was torn and he edged close to me. Spot put out his arm protectively in front of me.

"I ain't a nice boy, miss. I'd soak a lady."

Spot shoved Fang away from me. "I'd like to see you try."

The two stood in tense silence.

"Tomorra, Fang," Jack echoed casually. "if you still thinks of being a scab."

Fang snorted and turned on his heals. His boys followed him down off the street. Race patted my arm. "Ya did good, Shadow."

"It looks like we gotta have a strategy now," Jack said, all business, "if newsies are already thinkin' of being scabs."

"Fang ain't hard to take care of. Or his crew," Les said.

Spot shook his head. "They're right, though. The papes will hire muscle. Gutter rats like Fang will try to hide behind 'em."

"Well, we'll use our brains. I know Dave and Denton, and they are makin' plans. If we can get Brooklyn, it'll be a walk."

All the 'Hattan newsboys agreed. Spot sighed.

"Wait," I said as the boys started to head off.

They turned, eager for what I had to say.

"I'm part of you, right?"

They nodded.

"Well..." I stressed, "I got to know how to fight."

The boys rolled with laughter, getting a real kick out of this. For the next few blocks, Kid and Skittery each took pretend swings and jabs as Race demonstrated his defense routine. Spot wasn't pleased and didn't bother participating, folding his arms into his chest.

"All in all, kick between the legs," Race suggested as we arrived the well-lit Brooklyn Bridge where the 'Hattan newsies would cross. "Just kick between the legs."

"You're not gonna be fightin'," Spot whispered in my ear as the boys filed across the bridge.

"I might not have a choice."

"Not if I'm around."

Spot walked ahead, escorting me back to my church.

"You'll get caught," he explained reasonably. "It won't be hard for them to spot a girl. You're the first one the cops will take."

"Not if I'm dressed in my pants and cap," I reasoned.

"I'm not one to tell you no; I'm not your pa."

"No, you're not," I said somberly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mention-"

"It's okay. I know."

I climbed up to the attic. Spot paused at the latch. I thought for a moment he would explain everything. But he didn't.

"I won't fight," I said. "I mean, I won't know how."

Spot simply nodded and descended down the stairs.

That night, I couldn't sleep at all. The minute I closed my eyes, a terrible nightmare played out before me.

I was lost in a sea of striking newsboys, all running and trampling forward as I fought against the tide, screaming for Grandpa.

As I rounded the corners of the crowded streets, the dense population of boys grew scarce, and a lone man was sitting on an empty barrel. It was Grandpa. As I approached, his head was in his hands, and he began to mumble softly in Italian.

In an instant, his eyes flew open. His shirt was open on his chest, the hideous red circles of influenza fever clustered his skin. His sunken eyes looked right past me.

"Grandpa," I cried, but he didn't respond.

As I edged closer, his mumbling became clearer. But it wasn't his voice, it was Spot's: "Be strong. Speak up." Spot's voice through my grandfather's lips, repeated again and again, "You have a loud voice...loud. Be strong and speak up..loud. Hailey, Hailey, Hailey."

I gasped for air as I awoke in the stillness of the attic with sweat beading on my forehead.

My heart pounded. I tried desperately to slow my breathing, to calm myself, but the emptyness of the room only heightened my fear. The only reassuring comfort was the fact that Grandpa was still alive. There had to be some hope in that. "Calm, Hailey," I said to myself. "Don't cry. Don't cry," I repeated. "He's still alive. Grandpa is still alive."


	10. Strikers

I didn't mention my dream to Spot, but it lingered like a storm cloud above my head and weighed me down.

"Are ya alright?" he asked, figuring my sour look was my fear of what was to come with the strike. And although that wasn't the sole reason, it was enough of a partial truth.

"Yes, I'm fine."

As we approached the Brooklyn Distribution center, I tucked my hair under my cap. Suddenly, one of the Brooklyn newsies ran over to Spot, practically knocking him over. The boy was out of breath, as if he'd been running a marathon. Spot waited for him to catch his breath. "Manhattan," the boy was able to say while panting. "with banners and badges on their shirts," breath, "are gathered outside of the gates," breath, "but not with the intent to buy papes."

Spot nodded for the newsie to go on. The boy caught his breath and continued more easily now. "They was set on stoppin' the papes. Almost every boy had a badge on that said 'I ain't a scab.' In the hands of a few were thick red clubs like the spokes of a wagon wheel."

The fact that the boys felt they needed clubs put a pit in my stomach.

Spot muttered to himself again in some language. "I knew they would do this." He turned to me and grabbed my wrist. "Dammit, come on." And without warning, he pulled me down the line of newsies with him and gathered them up. He spoke to them in hushed whispers. I could barely hear what they were saying. Finally, they broke apart and before I knew it, Spot, me, and all the Brooklyn newsies were tearing off down the street and over the bridge.

We reached Manhattan, and let me tell you, it was truly a beautiful borough. Spot lead the pack to the gates of the Manhattan Distribution Center. Inside the gates, things weren't as beautiful. A fight had emersed between the 'Hattan newsies and some older men who were trying to kill the strike, and physically scare these boys into giving up.

Spot tried the gates, but they were locked from the inside. He cursed, and then signaled for some of the Brooklyn newsies to follow him up to the fire escapes. I followed closely behind. It was then that I noticed something they all had: slingshots. I gulped, and quickened my pace to catch up with Spot. We reached a roof top, and waited for a few minutes. We watched as a man with some kind of whip-chain swung at Jack. Jack barely dodged it.

I heard Race shout for Les to go home. Little Les was down there? Those men would crush him like a bug! Without any hesitation, Spot jumped down onto the fire escape, pulling me with him. The other newsies on the roof appeared as well. Spot nodded. "Never fear, Brooklyn is here!" he called. I bit my lip to keep from smirking at this.

I saw one of the newsies struggling against one of the men look up. "It's Brooklyn!"

The others down below looked up as well, renewed hope in their eyes. "Brooklyn!" they echoed.

Spot and his other newsies pulled back their slingshots and fired into the mob below, pelting the men with marbles and sharp stones. Even though it wasn't necessary, I took cover. I felt...vulnerable. I couldn't fight, I didn't have a slingshot, and I didn't really know what was going on anyway.

"Hey, Spot!" Jack called. Spot nodded, and held out his hand to me, and with his left hand he grabbed onto a cable wire above. I looked at him skeptically. "Do you trust me?" he asked, his blue eyes peering at me. I wanted to say 'no' and go back to my hiding place. But I nodded, and he grabbed onto my waist and before I knew it I was falling. Oh Lord.

I closed my eyes the whole way. I finally felt Spot's arm leave my waist, and I suddenly felt unsafe. I opened my eyes. We were on the ground. Spot spit-shook with Jack. The newsies had begun to soak the men. And then Spot opened the gate, letting all the other newsies in. They pushed the men back out of the gates. They boys jumped and cheered at their victory. A man with a camera told them to freeze. The flash snapped and I smiled.

The 'Hattan boys gave us two badges. I earnestly took mine and pinned it on.

"We'll move toward de middle," Jack exclaimed. "They are gonna release the delivery wagons, but we can't do much now until they arrive at de points."

"But we already got 'em scared," Race said with a smirk, "Weasel is pacin', shiverin' in his boots. After this, they ain't gonna open the gates again. They scared."

"We gonna follow de wagon up to Fifty-ninth, stop the delivery," Jack continued, annoyed that he was rudely interrupted. "Kid Blink was gonna take some of the newsies downtown."

"I'm not goin' uptown." Spot said flatly.

"I'll be alright," I interjected, but it seemed it had nothing to do with me.

Jack was about to speak but stopped. The two shared eye contact, an understanding between them.

"We'll rethink, then," Jack finally said. "Blink!"

Up walked Kid Blink. Spot shook his hand in a familiar way.

"Thanks for savin' the day, Spot," Kid congratulated.

Spot nodded with little pride. Spot clearly didn't show any sign of pride.

The circulation bell sounded, and the roar of the thousand boys who hollered at its toll sent chills up my spine.

A handful of boys began to file through the opening gate in a hurry, anxious to get away from the mob and take possession of their papers.

Shouts of "Scab!" echoed through the open street. To my surprise, a small group of women followed the boys.

"Oh, I see, having the ladies do your dirty work!" came shouts from the mob.

I turned to Spot. "Are they going to hurt those women?"

Spot shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Five cents a ten!" some boy shouted from the crowd. His roar spread, and the phrase grew into a chant.

"Five cents a ten! Five cents a ten! Five cents a ten!"

The scabs returned to the edge of the gate. They didn't look like hired muscle but regular newsboys. I figured they were newsies, just like me, who couldn't afford to miss one day of work. I turned to Spot. "Maybe they don't know that if we all stick together for even a day, it won't last long."

"They know," Spot said as the scabs proceeded past the open gates and onto the streets. The boys were immediately pounced upon. The flood of striking newsies descended upon the scabs, ripping their papers to shreds.

Spot held me toward the back of the crowd as Jack and the boys entered the fight. A few more delivery wagons exited the gate, and the strikers split up to follow.

Spot was right. This was not a scene I was comfortable in. The strikers flew like wild demons after the delivery trucks, howling at the top of their lungs. They lunged at the carts but only succeeded in stopping one when the shaken driver abandoned his seat and ran back into the distribution center. Boys with clubs repeatedly knocked the gates, causing a few scabs who had yet to advance them to shred up their own papers, which ignited cheers from the strikers.

Suddenly, a whistle halted from behind the crowd, and cops flooded the scene. Spot grabbed my hand and pulled me behind the side of the building.

"I thought they'd be with the trolley strikers?" I asked, confused.

Just then the 'Hattan boys flew around the corner.

"Come on!" Jack yelled as we fled with them. A delivery wagon passed us unharmed.

Once we were safely around the corner, Jack to Spot aside. "If we gonna stop the papes, we got to go to the distribution points."

A man in a top hat passed us on his way to work. "Keep up the good work, boys!"

The boys shouted and cheered, throwing their fists in the air.

The man responded by tossing a quarter high, and the boys fought over it like it was gold.

"Kill the scab!" rang out from the boys, and a kid with papers tucked under his arm ran for his life. Jack and Spot did not take notice, as they were in deep conversation.

Skittery approached and took Jack by the shoulder, breaking up his and Spot's discussion. "They gots five hundred boys up at Central Park on Fifty-ninth. That's where the action is. You comin'?"

Jack turned to Spot, whose arms were folded across his chest. He looked at me. Finally, Spot gave in and nodded.

"Yeah," Jack nodded.

I could tell this was not Spot's decision.

"Come on then!" Skittery shouted as he led a crowd up the street.

Snipeshooter must've noticed my confused look as we wandered up Broadway toward the distribution center at 59th near Central Park.

"Spot doesn't go past Fiftieth," he said casually.

"Why?" I shot back inquisitively.

Snipeshooter shrugged his shoulders.

"So why does Jack care? He can go without him."

Snipeshooter shook his head and smiled. "Jack needs Spot."

"I don't get it."

"Spot knows everyone!" Snipeshooter said, surprised I didn't know.

I didn't know what Snipeshooter meant; I had never seen anyone on the streets call out Spot by name but newsies.

"He got you into the Auburn, didn't he?" he smirked.

"Yeah, but...?"

"He knows as many people as the mayor, but he likes pretendin' he don't."

"Why, why..." Words were stumbling as I tried to understand. "Spot keeps to himself. I never see him talking to anyone."

"He doesn't have to. The people he knows are the important ones. At least it seems. They don't want to be seen talkin' with a newsie."

"Oh. Then why does Spot need Jack?"

"I ain't figured that one out yet," Snipeshooter responded tapping his head to suggest he would put his brain to it.

I watched Spot as he headed with his badge and banner, shouting with the other boys as they marched up the avenue. "Don't buy the _World _and _Journal_! Newsboys on strike!"

Now with this latest revelation about Spot, he was even more of a mystery, which frustrated me.

The numbers of the streets continued to climb: 31st, 39th, until 48th.

"Scab!" shouted Jack, pointing to a boys selling papers on the corner of 48th and Broadway.

"Wait, wait, wait!" David shouted as he held back furious newsies with one hand. "We don't know if he's sellin' the yellow kid papes."

"Look at him!"

The boy was built like a horse. In fact, he didn't look like a boy at all. His body was like a coal digger, with broad shoulders and thick, monstrous legs. Even if this boy was a scab, he was not to be messed with.

"Who is he?" the boys asked each other, but no one knew him.

"You all check it out. We'll keep goin' uptown," Skittery said to Jack.

Jack cracked his knuckles, and Race handed him a club. The boys continued up the street. I looked to Spot, expecting relief at not crossing his imaginary boundary, but he was just intent on the situation, giving me no signs that would further decode his mystery.

"I don't like this," Spot said, speaking up. "He can't be alone."

"Let's find out," Jack said, ignoring him and moving on toward the mule. "Hey, youse there!" Jack yelled.

The boy didn't turn. His ears seemed as dense as his muscle.

"Whatcha sellin'?" a kid with a crutch named Crutchy asked. Race crossed his arms at the boy, eager for a fight.

The boy finally turned and set his eyes on the six of us. He merely squinted and then said, "What do you care?"

"If ya sellin' boycotted papes, we got a problem with it."

"The _Journal _and _World_?" the boy looked around in a gloating manner. "They on strike, ain't they?"

"Then let me see." Jack eased in, close enough to smell the boy's festering sweat. "I'm lookin' to buy me a yella kid pape."

"Then it's ya lucky day."

Without a single word more, Jack and Race lunged at the boy while Crutchy and Snipeshooter swiped his papers and ripped them to shreds. I pulled my cap lower over my eyes as I watched the boy suspiciously refuse to fight back.

Suddenly, a whistle blew and a sea of cops emerged and encircled us. The thick mule of a boy smirked in pleasure as he finally flung the two boys off of him.

"It's a trap!" Spot shouted, grabbing my arm. We tried to get away, but the cops surrounded us.

I tried to keep my head down so they wouldn't recognize me as a girl, but is was hard to see where everyone was going. The boys scattered every which way. Spot and I broke out and started running down the alley, a cop hot on our tail.

We ducked around back to a fire escape. Spot hopped up and then held his hand out for me. I struggled with the rungs of the ladder, my boot lace on my left foot was untied, when he finally pulled me up with all his might.

We tucked ourselves around the stairs of the second flight and watched as the cop looked up and down the alley. In an instant he was back out on the street.

"Follow me," Spot said, signaling to climb higher.

At the top of the building, we had a clear view of the city baking in the summer heat.

I peered over the side of the building, down toward the street below. Spot joined my side. Despite our position, we could see the officers arrest Crutchy, no other boys in sight.

"We're arresting you for disturbing the peace." the policeman spoke in an official manner.

"Like I could ever beat up that mule!" Crutchy shot back.

The mighty boy shrugged his shoulders and chuckled a deep throaty laugh.

Spot shook his head. "Poor Crutchy."

"The cops set a trap!" I was shocked.

Spot shook his head. "Nah, it was Pulitzer or one of his men. They wanted to catch a newsie in action. Take 'em in, book 'em...ya know, make an example. They're just tryin' to scare us."

"But there's so many newsies."

"Yeah, it won't work. Not many cops out today anyway. The newsies were smart to start now."

"You mean 'we.'"

Spot turned to me and looked for a second, then smirked. "Yeah, sure. 'We.'"


	11. Joseph Pulitzer

That night the newsboy leaders formed an executive strike commitee, set up to organize and negotiate the terms of the strike. Jack was the chief organizer, Dave became the president for his brains, and Race was commissioned the orator.

Spot didn't really want to nominate himself but stayed quiet throughout the whole ordeal. Jack and Dave were the real stars of the evening and quietly became the clear leaders.

The real seal of the union's legitimacy came when a journalist for the New York _Sun_ named Brian Denton arrived at the meeting. Denton singled out Jack as the "Grand Master Workboy of Manhattan" and pledged his support. Racetrack vowed they would be there in the morning to soak scabs and would strike until "two fer a cent."

One of the more lively newsies I met that night was Nick Myers, or Mush, as they called him, for the way he flirted with the ladies. Needless to say, he quickly sought me out of the bunch for lively conversation.

"Okay, Mush, Hailey and I have to go." Spot edged in between us.

"Tomorra you shouldn't be fghtin' with those elegant hands." Mush smiled, edging closer to me. "You should be treated to a nice dinner at the Ritz."

"Okay, Mush!" Spot shouted so loud in my ear that it vibrated with a ringing sound.

Mush lifted up his hands in surrender and backed down. I looked at Spot, amused. "Don't think it's anything special. He flirts with all girls like that." Spot growled.

"I didn't say anything," I smirked.

In the morning, Spot revealed that he had strike committee business for us that morning and we shouldn't join the other boys on Park Row.

"Where are we going?"

Spot was silent as he jogged through the streets. My shoe laces flew liberated in the wind.

"Are we going to the distribution point?"

Again, Spot ignored me and kept walking.

"I wish you you would just teach me how to fight. I'd catch on quickly and then you wouldn't worry."

"It's not ya I worry about. It's boys like Fang who truly would soak a girl."

Spot made his way to 5th Avenue then descended down to 22nd Street.

"Aren't you going to tell me where we're going?" I asked again. Spot pointed ahead of him to a large building with at least twenty stories.

"What's in there?"

"A lawyer."

"We need a lawyer for the strike?"

"No, we need a lawyer for your pa."

I paused, "What?"

"Ya may have given up, but I haven't. There's always a way," Spot insisted, continuing ahead. "Ya comin'?" He waved, seeing I had not budged an inch.

The strike had let me forget about my dream from the previous night, but now I wasn't sure that was a good thing.

"Do you trust me?" Spot insisted again, holding out his hand.

I placed my small hand in his outstretched rough and calloused palm. "I trust you."

Spot proceeded to the elevator of the pristine building. I paused to marvel. I had never been in an old electric elevator before. I had seen them at the History Museum, but people weren't allowed to go in them because of the danger of it breaking. It had metal panels and eleborately working with swirling designs.

"Ya scared?" Spot asked, confusing my awe for anxiety.

"Nah...No," I stumbled out, stepping into the elevator.

Spot laughed and slid the metal gate across us, latching it closed.

"So Snipeshooter was right," I said low under my breath.

"Why, what did Snipeshooter say?"

"That you know everyone, everyone important."

"Nah, I don't."

Spot pulled a card out of his pocket. It read _Harry Manchester, attorney at law, 10th floor, 601 W. 22nd Street_. "I found it in a gutter," Spot chuckled, grabbing a lever attached to a round metal box and pulling it back. The elevator rumbled and then ascended with a slow clicking. I braced myself against the corner. Spot smirked, his hand securing the lever, perfectly content in control of the moving box.

"How do you know how to do that?" I asked.

"Saw a guy once."

The elevator's front bars allowed us to see numbers on the wall marking the floors as we ascended. As soon as we rolled passed the ninth floor, Spot slowly pushed the lever back to the center and we stopped. Proud of his operation with the elevator, he smirked as he slid open the gate and stepped out onto the ninth floor.

It wasn't hard to find the office: "Harry Manchester, Attorney at Law" was clearly written on the door in bold black letters.

Without hesitating, Spot walked right in. A secretary looked up from a typewriter.

"May I help you?" she sneered.

"We're here to see a lawyer."

"Does he know you're coming?"

"He gave us his card," Spot answered, waving the slip of paper.

"One moment," she said slowly, rising from her seat and walking into an adjoining room. I looked around the office, clean and well lit, with a window facing the street. It was a palace.

Harry Manchester, a robust and overweight old man with a bald head, emerged from the room followed by his secretary.

"I certainly do not know these children!" he said with a scowl.

"Wait, we want to hire ya, and we can pay!" Spot shot back before we were whisked from the room.

The large man snorted. "Come in here."

Spot and I entered the small room and took a seat on a large leather sofa. Harry Manchester remained standing behind a dark wooden desk.

"I don't do charity work."

"I saw your name in the paper, that ya helped those baseball players pro bono. I don't know much, but I know that means free."

"Famous men aren't charity - two very different things, boy."

"Well, you're the kind of guy who likes to get his name in the paper, and I can get it in the paper." Harry, intrigued by Spot's arguement, sat down.

"Hear us out. Tell him, Hailey." Spot turned to me.

"Well..." I said softly.

"Speak up, child. I cannot hear you." The man grouched.

"My father has been arrested."

"For what?" he said casually.

"For murder. I swear he didn't do it."

The old man leaned over the table. "Is he an immigrant?"

"Yes, we are Italian. But he doesn't speak English well, and that's the problem. I'm afraid they will put him away forever even though he is innocent!"

The old man shook his head. "He needs a good lawyer."

Spot shot up. "So you will help us?"

"For three hundred dollars."

I was struck speechless. "That is impossible."

"I'd have to sell papers and starve until January to pay that." Spot muttered.

"Three hundred dollars is what I offer. Like I said, I don't do charity work."

Spot was furious as he sprang to his feet. "She needs your help. He could die in the Auburn, and you know it!"

"I am the same price as every good, honest lawyer in this city. You will have to pay to free your father, girl. This is America."

Spot clenched his fists. Fearing he would do something unforgivable, I pulled him out of the office.

"Did you see the way he spoke at us? I could gather a hundred newsies who could pitch in three dollars. In s heartbeat!" he shouted, slamming the elevator door closed.

"It's alright. We'll find a way."

"That's it!" Spot's eyes lit up.

"What?"

"We'll collect a fund."

"But the strike."

"The strike will be over in a couple of days, I'm sure of it, and with the decrease to five cents a ten, I know we could do it. Ya one of the newsies now. They would do it."

I threw my arms around him, ecstatic at a restoration of hope. Realizing I was clinging to Spot a little too tight, I pulled back, my face flushed red.

With the break of our embrace, Spot lowered his cap over his eyes. Even at his attempt to disguise it, I could tell he too was blushing.

The elevator hit the ground floor, and we both rushed out of the elevator, putting some space between us.

To Spot's surprise, and mine, there was no movement on the end of Hearst and Pulitzer toward resolving the strike. Communication was coming through the circulation office managers, who only relayed false information at times to trick the boys into buying papers. At one point, they said papers were now three for a cent, then five for a cent, then free! Jack insisting that the committee needed to go directly to the editor of the _World _himself, gathered a group to descend upon the Park Row office.

Spot and I joined in and marched up and down the sidewalk with banners. We even sang songs of our plight.

My favorite was the tune of an Irish song, "Teir Abhaile Rui," made up by the Irish boys of Bowery. The newsies added their lyircs with the usual flair.

To all the boys' delight, the lesser-circululated papers of New York, the _Sun _and the _Times_, the _Tribune_, the _Herold_, and even the _Brooklyn Eagle _approached the gathering to report our demands. The boys loved finding their names in the editions, many of them calling themselves "leaders of the strike" and citing themselves as the "one who started the whole thing." The reporters lapped up all the colorful stories the boys shared with them as fact, even if they were flat out lies.

Finally, after an hour of waiting and chanting outside the _New York World_ offices, a shiny black horse-drawn cab pulled up in front of the main door.

Jack leapt forward. "If that's Pulitzer, we should send someone to talk to 'im."

"Send Les. He's the youngest," David said.

Mush looked over at Les, "Go up an' ask 'im."

The boy's eyes went wide, and he hurried up to the door. As it opened, a tall man with a long beard stepped out of the cab with a majestic stride.

The strikers fell silent.

"Are youse Mr. Pulitzer?" Les asked.

Pulitzer stopped in his tracks and looked at the eager boy. His eyes then drifted up at the fifty of us with our banners and badges.

"Yes."

"We're the strikers, Mr. Pulitzer, your highness, sir," Les said in a sweet high voice.

Pulitzer bellowed low in what seemed like a laugh. Within a minute, another man stepped out of the cab and was at his side. He took Les by the ear to usher him away when Pulitzer stopped him with a raise of his hand.

"What do you want, boy?" Pulitzer asked Les.

Jack stepped forward, taking over. "We want one hundred papers for fifty cents."

Pulitzer looked to the man at his side. "Send up four boys."

I looked to Spot, who was just as surprised and awestruck as I was.

Pulitzer strutted into the building, and his assistant looked at Jack. With disdain and impatience in his voice, he spat, "You heard him. Only four of you boys. Which ones will it be?"

Jack and David decided to take a trusted man each. Jack chose Spot, and David took Blink.

I turned to Spot in surprise, but he was calm. The four boys continued into the building of the paper and left the world in which they belonged outside.

All was calm for ten minutes, the longest time I had ever seen the newsies go without talking. You would have thought God himself had struck them dumb. I considered walking over to the hot dog cart when Race shot up from his seat.

"The whole strike committee should be up there negotiatin'," rumbled Race.

A couple of newsboys nodded. Specs, who had looked like he was merely in deep thought, shifted his wait to his knees and tipped up his cap. "They might be up there offerin' our boys bribes."

"Bribes? Can they do that?" spat a newsie called Itey.

"They can do anythin'," Specs said, leaning back and covering his face with his cap to take a nap. But the newsies weren't as calm as Specs. I could tell Race was starting to gather some steam.

I began to worry if Pulitzer was offering Spot a bribe, he might accept the money for the lawyer. The last thing I wanted was Spot betraying his borough because of me.

The minutes ticked by, and the boys continued to mumble rumors. I listened in for Spot's sake. However, twenty minutes later, the four boys exited the building with little flair or pomp.

"What'd he say?" the newsies said in unison, like a chorus.

Jack emerged proudly. "He said he would give us an answer on Monday. I think we might 'ave won, boys!"

The boys cheered enthusiastically. Jack went on to recount step by step the details of the meeting.

"The lobby was real nice," Jack described. "Marble and crafted wood and stuff. We were led to his office and told to wait outside."

"It was about five minutes waitin'," David added.

"Then what?" they probed.

"We told him again what we wanted." Jack stood up. "I want one hundred papers for fifty cents, and so do all the boys of Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Long Island, and we're not backing down till we get it."

"What'd he say?" the boys echoed one another in expectation.

"The old man stroked his beard, stared us down, and said, 'I'll have to talk it over with some guys before giving an answer,' I then asked if we could arbitrate with 'em like he does with his own pape. He laughed and said if he needed to arbitrate, he'd meet us at the Broadway Central Hotel. Then, he added, he'd give us an answer on Monday," Jack finished, incredibly pleased with himself.

The fifty or so boys who were there were greatly encouraged. Attacks on the scabs became less of a priority, and the strike committee treated themselves to a nice meal.

Later that evening, while the boys were crowded around a table in the ally playing jacks and cards, Jack, Spot, and Dave decided to huddle in a corner. Some of the boys didn't like this, and even brought up wether the boys' account of what happened with Pulitzer was truthful. Up until that point, it never occured to anyone that they might have lied.

"I ain't likin' it. I think Pulitzer paid them off. Watch, they'll abandon us. You'll see," I oerheard Snipeshooter say low to Race.

I knew the boys couldn't care less about what I had to say, but I listened and grew angry with what I heard.

"Spot and Jack know something more, and they ain't sharin'." Race squirmed.

Later that evening, all the boys broke up and scattered to various lodging houses to meet with more strikers. I was quiet as I walked back to the church with Spot.

"So what really happened?" I asked Spot.

"What do you mean?"

"In Pulitzer's office. Quite an exciting place, but you were all very casual about the whole affair."

"The whole affair? There's no affair. Jack said the whole thing," Spot remarked, which really sent me into a fit.

I stomped on my heels. "Then we aren't friends," I shouted, "and we never were."

I took off in a huff. Spot let out a sigh and picked up his pace to catch me at the church gate.

"I don't know if I can trust you!" I snapped at him.

"I've given ya no reason not to. Why would you say that?" He paused, as if realizing something, and smirked. "Is it someone's _special_ time of themonth?"

I rolled my eyes, and shook my head. "I don't know anything about you, Spot - why you don't go above Fiftieth Street, why you and Jack have this understanding, and why you feel you owe him something?"

Spot took a deep breath. "Is that what this is about?"

"Oh, and the key arounf your neck, what is that for?"

Spot walked toward me. I grimaced back, feeling like he might yell at me or storm off, but he merely took my hand gently.

"Come with me."

I pulled back.

"If ya want to know, then come on," he said, yanking my arm.

I didn't know what to think as Spot led me up Broadway, like we normally go when heading to the docks. But as we approached 50th Street, Spot, to my amazement, kept walking.

"It's almost midnight. If the cops see us, we'll be picked up."

"Then ya better start movin' faster."


	12. Aidan Conlon

At 54th Street, Spot took a hard left and ducked into an alley.

Eventually he stopped under the fire escape of a tenement and stared up at it omniously, like it was the gateway to hell.

"This was my home."

"Here?"

Spot shushed me. "They'll hear you."

"They?"

"My ma, my six sisters...and my pa."

"People say you're an orphan."

"I never say it. I don't lie, but I guess people think it from the way I talk."

"Why did you leave?"

"My pa liked his whiskey. Ever since I was six, he had me work odd jobs to make some extra money for it. I thought I was in some way helpin' my family. But it got to the point that it didn't matter if I brought home a good pay or not - he would beat me and kick me around. Worst of all, it got to the point where he wanted me to steal. Can you believe it - a cop askin' his son to steal wood from the yards? I knew it was wrong, and I didn't want to do it. One day I was caught, by the cop from the Tombs - rememba him?"

"Yes," I said, breathlessly hanging on Spot's every word.

"He saw who my pa was, and when my pa came to pick me up from the station, he could sense somethin' wasn't natural. I confided in him, and he said he would help me out if I needed it. He knew very well what kind of man my pa was. So, one day I couldn't take the whippin' anymore, and I left. I found the church ya sleep in now and stayed there for a while."

"That explains a lot."

"One day I was out sellin' papes, and the boys wanted to go north up to Central Park. I went, thinkin' nothing of it. Well, my pa worked that section and saw me. He grabbed my by the neck, threw me down, and gave me the worst beatin' of my life with his belt. Jack saw this and lunged at my pa. He got in the midst of it and was sent to the Refuge."

"But I thought he was thrown in there because he stole food?" I questioned.

Spot shook his head. "Both of us swore never to mention that day again, too horrible. So, he kinda covered it up with a lie. Anyway, Jack was arrested, be he stood by me. He spat right in the judge's face and said, 'If you ain't believin' me story that this boy was bein' whipped senseless by his pa in broad daylight for no good reason, then youse ain't no fair judge.'"

"He said that?"

"Yep, he served time for me, and we didn't even know each other all that well then."

"So that's why he was in the Refuge?"

"Yeah. When he got out, I was waitin' for him, said I would do anythin' for him. Besides, I felt guilty about him serving time in that awful place. Jack got me out of the church and into the Brooklyn Lodging Houses, showed me how to hawk papes better and how to work all the streets lower than 50th."

Spot got up from the crates and adjusted his cap, "Well, Hailey, that's my story."

"Thanks for telling me. But," I drew in a breath, "you passed Fiftieth. You said you never would."

"I pass 50th once every week."

"Why?"

Spot pulled out a roll of dollars from his pocket. "I still take care of my sisters and my mother. My pa just doesn't know. He's too drunk most of the time to realize if Lilly has new shoes or there's bacon for breakfast." Spot started to climb the fire escape. "Ya can come up, just have to be reallly quiet."

"Are you sure?"

Spot nodded. He was serious and intent on his delivery, a side of him I'd never seen. As we approached the third floor of the apartment building, I noticed the window was cracked, expecting his arrival.

"They know you come?"

"Just my ma."

Spot slid the window up a little more, being careful not to make a noise. He turned to me and said, "Wait here."

I watched in fear as Spot tiptoed into the apartment. I could hear snoring coming from inside. I took a closer look and realized two beds were not far from the window, one for his father and mother, and the other for his six sisters.

Suddenly the snoring stopped and my heart jumped. His father rustled in his bed.

Spot paused and then continued to creep toward the apron that hung on the peg a few feet from the window. But just as he was about to slip the roll of dollars in the pocket, a voice roared in the darkness.

"Who's there?"

Spot dropped the money securley into the pocket and without caution dove toward the window.

"Hey you! Bernadette, there's a break-in! Bernadette!" Spot rolled down the fire escape in a hurry. I was already on the stairs.

"Hurry!" he cried.

Spot and I ran out of the alley and around the corner. Faint voices could still be heard above.

"Did they take anything, those snatches! Where's my gun?"

Spot leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

"I take it that's never happened before?"

He shook his head, too shook up to speak.

"Do you think your mother will be okay? Will he find the money?"

"Nah," he managed. "He didn't see me, I don't think. Come on, we should get back before anyone sees us."

I followed Spot, for the first time seeing fear in his eyes. His feelings for his father were so different from mine. Spot shuddered at the idea of his dad seeing him while I wanted so deseperately to see mine again. In some way, I thought, this could have been much of the reason Spot wanted to fight to reunite me with Grandpa. We shared something he'd never had.

"Aidan Conlon, huh?" I brought up, once we were a safe distance away.

"What?"

"Your name...that you told my dad."

"Yeah, Aidan James Conlon." He smirked.

"One would think you would have a different nickname then Spot, ya know...?"

"And what would that be?" He smiled, genuinly smiled, prodding me on.

"You know."

"Nah, I don't." He stopped, facing me.

"Your smile," I said low, blushing.

"What about my smile?" He smirked.

"Well, it's just, you know...nice I guess. One would think your nickname was "smile" or something."

Spot laughed. "Ya like my smile?"

"No, it's just..." Too embarrased to speak, I gave up and continued walking. "So I know everything about you now?"

"Everything," Spot stated flatly.

"No," I protested.

Spot stopped.

I pointed to his neck. "The key on a shoelace string around your neck."

"Oh," Spot chuckled, "not everything."

"And you're not going to say anything?" Spot shook his head 'no.'

"Ah!" I threw up my hands, exasperated.

"But now _I _know something," he teased.

"What?"

"You like my smile."

And without one more word, he set out down the street, his eyes alert to dodge the late-night police.


	13. Irving Hall

Sunday was quite a day, mostly because there was no evening papers to sell on Sunday, hence nothing to boycott. The boys took this as their day to strategize , plan a parade, and secure New Irving Hall to hold a rally. Word came through the ranks that imported officials were now lending their support, including Michael "Red" Reilly, a former Brooklyn newsie himself and now a state senator. Part of me wondered if this was another contact of Spot's, but he would never admit it.

This was also the day that the _World _and _Journal _decided they needed more scabs on their side and sent notices to the lodging house for "the bums," as Spot called them. They offered two dollars a day and the papes at forty cents a hundred. I wondered if, with all the incentives the papers were offering, it would have been cheaper to comply with the newsboys' demands. The goal of the papers was to keep them on the street at all costs, and the newsies were happy to make them pay.

As the strike committee went to all the papers with news of the mass meeting and their support from Michael Reilly, Spot and I set off with "newsie support" circulars to pass out around Downtown.

"I'm afraid the strike is gonna get more violent. I saw some boys with dynamite," Spot whispered to me as he passed out a circular and the man donated a penny to the cause in return.

"You don't think they would really use it, do you?"

"You never know. The trolley strikers do. As much as Jack wants to believe that the strike committee and the union mean somethin', it doesn't hold weight with the boys. They're all their own businessmen, ya know?"

"I see what you mean."

"Boys are also gettin' impatient, starting to blame the leaders just to blame somebody."

"Jack?"

"Yeah, Jack and Dave mostly. They're easy targets."

"But Pulitzer said he'd give an answer tomorrow. That has to mean something."

"I hope."

Spot and I raised a dollar and a quarter by the time we were finished distributing the circulars. I enjoyed the lazy Sunday with Spot so much that I wondered what the past week would have looked like had there not been a strike.

Spot's forewarnings were correct. The next morning, the mass meeting was one of the most violent of the strike. In fact, the boys kicked it off the night before by succeeding in tipping over a delivery wagon and seriously injuring the driver.

At 42nd and Vanderbilt, one hundred strikers fought two wagons and thirty men and big boys. They vigorously ripped up the papers in a flurry like a snowstorm, but not without a few bloody noses and thrown stones. On 125th and 3rd Avenue, three hundred strikers advanced across town and eventually up to the Harlem news offices, leaving a wake of attacks in their path. If any "two-dollar" bums had decided to take the papers up on their offer, they were sure regretting it.

Spot wasn't happy with the news and informed Jack that the increase in violence only weakened the legitimacy of the union and gave Pulitzer reason not to take the boys seriously. "Ya can reduce the circulation and make an impact without the mass violence," Spot stressed. "It's different swipin' papes from a scab. Throwin' stones and clubs at the wagon drivers makes us look bad. I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but Dave's got a point when he said it'll give us a bad name."

It didn't help the riotous and restless newsboys that the parade Jack promised never happened. After various excuses, Jack again insisted he would secure a permit from the mayor and the parade would happen the following day.

For the boys who needed ammunition to doubt their leaders, Jack failing on his promise to secure a permit for a parade that morning added fuel to their fire.

As the meeting at Irving Hall on Broome Street came to order, the crowd of united newsboys cheered so loud that those in the box seats felt a small earthquake. I joined in, getting up on my seat and shouting at the top of my lungs. It was almost like a mixer, except me and some other girl named Sarah were the only females. I laughed to myself, thinking about how I could have been back home, with my friends doing each others' stupid nails. My "ladylike" manners had now morphed into spitting on a perfectly clean floor, muffling profanity under my lungs, and shouting so loud that my voice was going hoarse. It was great.

"Strike! Strike! Strike!" the crowd chanted in unison.

It wasn't even the interior that was rumbling with voices. The theater could only fit two thousand, so the extra three thousand supported spilled out onto the street. Various delegations from Jersey City, Brooklyn, Harlem, Midtown, 'Hattan, the West Side, and Downtown were all represented.

My toes curled inside of my boots with excitement. This moment was mine as well. I tried to absorb the energy, the boys' spirit. This was a weapon I could use throughout my life, in all my battles.

Ironically, the featured speakers of the night had something else to fight for.

Mush, who introduced himself to the crowd as "Nick Myers," was elected chairman of the strike committee and the organizer of the night. He struggled for fifteen minutes trying to calm the boys. Finally, the boys settled to a low rumble, and Mush was able to introduce some of the speakers of the night.

Spot, Jack, and David got up and argued over what should happen. Finally, Jack and Spot nodded to each other. I looked to Spot who looked to Jack. David looked pleased and terrified to be there. Race immediately got up to speak. He looked like the kind who never backed down from an opportunity to shine. Finally, Spot got up by himself to speak. He put his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight onto his right leg, eyes shining bright against the lights of the stage. He eventually shushed them with his hand, which he immediately put back in his pocket.

"I'm not gonna lie. A man attempted to bribe me two dollars to sell the yellas." The boys booed and hissed. I was surprised. Spot had never mentioned this to me.

"But I said I wouldn't take it because the man refused to contract to pay my hospital expenses."

The boys doubled over in laughter. Spot, unable to maintain a straight face, gave in too.

I loved seeing Spot up there in all his glory. His tall shape and unmatched confidence made him appear smarter and more important than the other boys who were on the strike committee. "I work better from the shadows," he had said, "until I got somethin' to say."

Suddenly I noticed that Spot was looking at me, waving me to join him.

"Shadow! Come on up!"

I balked, but soon all the 'Hattan and Brooklyn boys were chanting "Shadow."

I caught my breath. It took me a while to understand that it wasn't just the 'Hattans and Brooklynites, but that many others were cheering me on to speak.

Next thing I knew, I was thrust up on the stage, Spot ushering me into the center. "What do I say?" I whispered.

"Anythin' ya want."

"Well..." I said, trying to hear my own words amid the noise of the crowd.

"Hey," Spot shouted at Snipeshooter, who was yelling my name. "Hey there, Snipester, shut up, yeah?"

The room quieted. I took a deep breath. I'd never spoken in front of a crowd before. It was against everything in my nature. Finally, I managed to put on a bold look. "All I can say, boys, is to stick together and we'll win."

The boys clapped sporadically. I heard Snipeshooter mumble, "Well, what do ya expect...she's a girl."

Fire rushed up inside me.

"Well, as a girl," I said pointedly to Snipeshooter but loud enough for the crowd to hear, "I'm seeing what you boys are doing to each other. You don't listen, you spread rumors of bribes, and you change your allegiances depending on who's in the room."

The hall fell silent.

"Yes, some of these boys are real good at speaking, and they are speaking for you, so don't tear them down. When they say, 'Stick together,' they aren't saying it just to keep themselves as your leaders. They're saying that because they know the second you break apart with your lies and rumors, people are going to get hurt. And Hearst and Pulitzer win."

I felt dizzy and happy, right to my bones. I took a deep breath and held it. The boys' reaction was quick and mixed. Some leapt to their feet with cheers, others sank in their seats. Spot was flabbergasted. It was a sight I would never forget.

"That's all I've got to say to you." I curtsied. The boys loved it.

Eventually, Race grabbed my hand and ushered me to the 'Hattans, where they offered their congratulations for a great speech in their typical rough manner. In doing so, however, they attracted some attention of an officer who quickly approached and pulled them off of me.

"Sir, I'm fine. These are my friends."

"Miss, you will have to come with me."

A lump rose in my throat.

Race rushed to my side. "She's my sista', offica'. She's me responsibility."

The officer eyed the boy. "You better take care of her. You boys were a little too rough for my liking."

"Of course, offica'."

The cop peeled away. Racetrack took me to his side protectively.

"Let's get youse outta 'ere," Race insisted.

I nodded my head and joined the boys as they headed onto the main avenue. But before Irving Hall was completely out of sight, I took one last look around. By now, most of the boys had left, and there were only cops strolling their route and creepy night-walkers milling around. It was no surprise that there was no sign of Spot.

**A/N: Okay I cut out the part about the cops arresting Jack at Irving Hall, but I have plans for that later. Enjoy!**


	14. Betrayal

The next morning, I waited inside the attic for Spot, who was unusually late. I soon became solemn in my quietude like the praying parishioners in the church below. Alone with my thoughts in the hushed daybreak, I reflected soberly about all I'd done.

My mind drifted to the night before. I felt a fleeing sense of pride at the newsies' response to my speech. Having been the only girl to speak that night, I received some of the loudest cheers and applause. And then I realized, with a pang og guilt, that with the attention of the largest crowds witnessed, I made no mention of my grandpa.

Surely, the boys who cared about the injustice of the newsie would have cared about that my grandpa was wrongly imprisoned. Tears streamed down my face, and my heart pounded. I muffled my cries in my blanket. I knew I would never get that chance again.

I took a deep breath. I couldn't sit here alone waiting for Spot. I had to do something.

Fleeing the church with desperation, I walked and walked. I wasn't sure where to go or where Spot was. I tried making my way to Park Row for the parade, but every time I got within sight, I turned my heels and walked down another side street.

My thoughts raced. Spot was a good friend, maybe even more than a friend. I was conflicted about my feeling for him, let alone describe my feelings for him. But no matter how wonderful he was, no matter how much the newsies accepted me as one of them, Spot and the newsies weren't my family.

The only thing that stopped me in my tracks was a loud growl from my stomach. Looking up at the clock above City Hall, I saw that it was long past morning, and I was starving.

Giving in, I finally made my way toward the gathered crowd of newsboys on Park Row and was taken aback by what I saw.

The newsboys had not only succeeded in confiscating and shredding the papers from scabs and wagons but had also stormed the counting rooms and pulled the stacks from them, creating a blizzard of paper that formed six-inch snowdrifts along the street.

"Shadow!"

I turned my head in the direction of the voice, expecting to see Spot standing there towering over the smaller newsboys and tipping his cap. But it was a younger Irish newsboy, someone I didn't recognize.

"Boys!" he said, motioning his friends. "It's the girl from last night."

The boys immediately collected around me, patting my back, shaking my hand. I tried to get out of the huddle, pulling and pushing my way out. Luckily, I spotted some 'Hattans.

"Les!" I screamed, running toward him. He was Davey's little brother. He turned and looked pale.

"What happened to the parade?"

"Jack never showed. There was no permit, again. They think he's been lyin'. Then David showed up and stepped down as president."

"Where's Spot?"

Les shook his head, "Can't say nothin' right now." He dropped his voice low to a whisper.

Before I could ask why, the leader of the Harlem boys called Flames approached Les with five boys flanking his side. "Where are they, Les?"

"Don't know what youse talkin' about." He shook his head, faking a false bravado.

"I heard about your brotha', and now Jack ain't here either."

Flames glared at me. "You know somethin'?"

"Les, if you know something, tell them," I encouraged.

"I don't know nothin'!" he shouted. "I'm headin' over to Tibby's."

"No you ain't!" Flames' boys held Les up by the neck.

Racetrack made his way through the crowd. I tried to get close to him, but some of Flames' boys blocked my way. Racetrack was sticking close to them, which I found unusual.

"Shadow, Jack ain't here. They say he's sellin' papes," Racetrack said.

"Why? He wouldn't do that. After last night?"

"Les knows," Race said with solemn tone.

Les was now grasping his neck, and his face was starting to turn from red to white to blue. How American.

Flames smirked. "Tell us, Les, or we're gonna soak ya."

Les swallowed hard. He had no choice.

"Jack was gone all last night. He wasn't at the Lodging House. That's all I know."

The boy released Les and punched him in the gut.

"Hey!" I shouted, pulling Les to me, away from the boys. Race stepped in and helped block the boys' path.

"Jack ain't no scab," Les shot back.

Something didn't add up. I started to worry as the boys carried on with violent banter. No one had a clear head, and it was difficult to tell what they were saying as their voices carried over one another, a clash of "douse," "youse," and "soak 'em." As the boys got into more heated conversation, I took this opportunity to grab Les by the shoulder and pull him off to the side.

"Where's Spot? You can trust me."

Les looked at the ground. "I dunno. Last night I saw Jack get picked up in a real nice carriage - that's what I saw. If I tell the boys, they'll think he's been convinced by Pulitzer and Hearst to turn on them. I went to go find Spot, and he wasn't at his Lodging House either...Though Spot sometimes sleeps other places, youse know."

"But something isn't right."

"And it gets worse," Les said low under his breath so that I almost couldn't hear him.

"What?" I asked, breathless.

"Kid was gone this morning," Les muttered. "Then I heard Kloppman say he got a call Kid was in jail, arrested for blackmailin' Pulitzer." Now I was certain that something had happened with the boys last night, and once I could find out what that was, I thought, I'd be able to find Spot.

"Come quick!" one of the boys shouted. "Hurry!" Les and I ran after Racetrack, Flames, and the rest of the boys as they set off with purpose. The mob of nearly three hundred boys charged down Park Row chasing after someone. When the horde of angry boys stopped I saw their prey: Jack. Two officers had snatched him from the crowd, the reason for the abrupt halt of the pursuit. Jack, hands held up in surrender, was in the nicest suits I'd ever seen on a boy his age. This only fueled rumors and confirmed suspicions that he had been bought.

"He's a scab! Wese got a right to soak him!" shouted one of the bigger boys.

"Do you have a permit for this gathering?" questioned the officer to Jack.

"He ain't with us," howled one of the boys.

Jack was frightened, and as his terror rose, he turned to the policeman. "No, sir, I got no permit. Youse gonna take me in?"

"That's right, run like a scab," one of the boys shot back.

"Jack," I shouted. "Jack!"

But he didn't look back as the police carted him off. I figured the rumors were true. He had betrayed the newsboys and was looking for safety in mistakenly being arrested.

A sick feeling boiled in my stomach. Nothing seemed fair or right anymore. If both Jack and Kid had betrayed the newsboys, then I was at a loss for what Spot might have done.

The mob broke up, and the boys went their separate ways. The members of the strike committee who remained agreed, under the guidance of their self-elected new president David, to meet again and appoint new positions. I decided to head north and see if I could fins Spot at one of his favorite spots. My secret hope was that he had just taken the day to himself, away from the chaos, innocent and oblivious to the unraveling that had just occurred.


	15. The Scab of Central Park

The farther I walked uptown, the quieter the world became, and I joyfully welcomed it. Before I knew it, I was standing at the entrance of the Brooklyn Bridge. I decided to see if Spot went to Manhattan. It took a while to cross it, but I didn't mind being alone. I came across Central Park, lush and inviting. The air in the shade was unusually cool, and I felt like sleeping under an oak tree and washing my memory of the last two weeks.

Determined to find the right tree, I ventured into the park. To the right of me there was a path, known as the Central Park loop, where a young newsgirl was standing by a green wooden bench. She relaxed with a stack of papers that were nearly half her height, a look of boredom on her face.

I made the mistake of smiling at her when suddenly she shouted back at me.

"Hey, come here for a minute!"

I looked behind me, but there was no one. Indeed, it was I whom she was calling.

"Yeah, you!"

Her face scrunched up in confusion as she looked me over.

"Are youse a boy or girl?"

I had forgotten I was still dressed as a boy and was so dirty I doubted my own family would've recognized me.

"What's it to you?" I shot back.

"I need you to watch my papes. But I only trust girls."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you don't see anyone else, do ya?"

"How do you know I won't run off with them? I asked. She looked at me funny.

"You ain't a boy, that's why." she said.

"Sure, I'll watch them," I shrugged.

As she handed me the stack, I took one look then dropped them all over the sidewalk like a hot poker.

"Ya crazy?!" she shouted.

"They're the yellows!" I shouted back in disgust.

"Well, they ain't gonna bite ya," she sneered, picking them up.

"You're selling the yellows," I said in disbelief.

"So, what's it to ya? The _World _is the best pape to sell, especially with the strike. You can't find it anywhere."

"Exactly, the strike. Why...?"

"That's the boys' fight. We girls are different. Plus, they won't soak a lady."

"Just because they won't soak us doesn't give us the right to sell 'em."

"We're girls. We're different is all."

"No we're not different. We all need to stick together to make the strike work."

The newsgirl was not convinced. After she stacked the papers, she set them beside me on the ground. "Well, you ain't got to touch them. Now I'm sure you won't run off with them. Look, there's a peddler on the corner over there that owes me two hot dogs, but he won't give them to a scab. He can't see me with the papes. I promise I'll bring you back one."

I relented. "Fine."

And with that the girl ran off.

I stood there staring at the papers in conflict. Everytime crowds passed by, I froze, praying they would not ask for one. But no one in particular seemed to be walking close enough to the bench, and I began to evaluate that this newsgirl had not picked a very good spot. The most vital part of being a newsie is to know how to pick a good spot.

After a couple of minutes, I considered leaving. However, even though this girl felt no loyalty to the strike, she was earning a living with these papers, and by abandoning her I knew I would be doing the wrong thing. So I stayed.

Then, as I had feared, a patron approached to buy a paper. I spotted her before she spoke. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, tall and slender with an hourglass figure. Atop her slender neck was a small rounded face with crimson red lips, which complimented her golden brown hair swept up and piled high under a hat filled with white and pink flowers.

"Dear, you're a young girl!" she said, surprised, as she approached, her voice breathless, full of spunk yet still sophisticated. "Well, despite how you are dressed, I would like to buy one of your papers."

"Excuse me?" I was still so stunned by the sight of her I had forgotten the papers were by my side.

"That is the _World_, is it not?" she chirped.

I glanced down. "It is, miss."

She smiled, her pursed lips parted in a playful manner.

"You seem shocked by this." The woman opened her coin purse. "Oh dear, I only have a five piece. Do you have change?"

"I don't, miss."

"Should I wait while you go get some?"

"No, miss," was I could say.

At this she grew rather impatient. "I've searched the entire town for two hours looking for the _World_."

"Because of the strike," I explained. "There are no editions because the newsboys are on strike."

"Oh." She seemed caught off guard. "Then I will give you the five piece, and you may keep the change." She held out the five piece for me to take. It seemed so shiny and gold, it would buy food for three days if I spent it right.

"I am sorry, I cannot."

Her soft eyes stared at me in confusion.

"First off, these are not my papers but belong to another girl who left for a moment. And second, I support the strike with every bone in my body and will not, even for a five piece, be a scab."

The woman's brow furrowed, and then to my surprise, she began to laugh. She laughed so hard that she eventually collasped on the bench beside me.

"Do you mind if I ask what is so funny?" I asked her.

The woman took a deep breath and then proceeded to take off her hat filled with flowers and place it beside her on the bench. She turned her sweet, inviting face to me and smiled. "My name is Johanna Hearst. What is yours?"

My eyes widened. Johanna _Hearst?_ As in William Randolph Hearst? "Hailey...Contadino."

"It's very nice to meet you, Hailey." She took another breath. "It has been a most exhausting day. You see, Hailey, in that paper there is a story about my father William Hearst. Surely they are terrible and untrue things. However, although they are untrue, my family intends to ignore the allegations, so much so that they refuse to even find out how they are being reported in the _New York World._"

"I see."

"I look upon myself to ignore my family's wishes of denial and seek out the paper myself. As I told you, it has taken me two hours to even find it, and my feet are very sore. And now that I have found you, you have given me every reason not to buy the paper."

"It is quite funny," I smirked.

"It is." Johanna smiled. "But to find such a truthful young girl is not funny - it's refreshing."

"Thank you," I said humbly, under my breath.

"However, may I ask, if you are refusing to work, why aren't you in school or with your family?" she asked this with a very honest face. She was not at all like the Reformer, but I still resisted telling her anything.

"I'm afraid things were also said about my father that were terrible and untrue." I said, thinking of Grandpa.

Her smile faded, and her eyes warmed with sympathy.

"I haven't many places that I can be, but to tell you the truth, Miss Hearst, I prefer this small piece of sidewalk right now to anywere else."

"When is the last time you've eaten?" she asked with concern.

"Last night, before sundown."

"And far past noon today!" she said, surprised.

"You didn't run!" the newsgirl yelled as she ran back with only one hot dog in her hand. "Oh, 'ello, lady," the girl said, stopping in her tracks. "Come to buy a paper?"

"No thank you. I ended up not needing the paper."

"Sorry, they only had one hot dog," the girl lied as she picked up her papers. "Have a nice day," she said as she stuffed the hot dog in her mouth and walked off to another part of the path.

"Young Hailey Contadino, I would ike to give you a meal, if you have the time. What do you say?" Johanna insisted.

"Well...you can't ask any questions, and I won't give you any answers," I spat, maybe a little too harshly.

She smiled. "Agreed. So, you will come?"

My stomach growled and I nodded.


	16. The Cover Girl

Johanna Hearst was a perfect depiction of a Cover Girl, I thought. She was beautiful, young, and spirited. She was not only completely feminine but also independent. She wore the popular stiff shirtwaist and the big plumed hat. Her flowing skirt was hiked up in the back with a hint of bustle.

Her townhouse wasn't far from the east side of Central Park and was magnificent, a towering three-story house with a white façade and pillars that framed the doorway. The paved stoned street was the complete opposite of where the docks were located. It was pristine, there were no children playing outside, and it was so quiet that you could actually hear a bird chirp.

We entered the foyer. Johanna whisked her hat off and threw the "dreadful heavy thing" on a neighboring table. She started to move off to the kitchen when she realized that I stood dead in my tracks staring at the brilliance of the furnishings before me. The most elaborate was a four-foot oil painting above the fireplace.

"That is a portrait of my family," she hinted in the direction of my stare.

I had assumed as much. It depicted the towering figure of her father on the right, standing behind three seated girls, one of whom was her mother. Two proud strapping men who stood behind the women on the left. A small white dog sat at the feet of the women. Underneath the portrait was the most elaborate mantelpiece for a fireplace I had ever seen, carved out of black marble.

"I'd give you a tour, but I am afraid you will faint before I finish showing off the parlor. I must give you food. I must."

As we moved down the hall toward the kitchen, I caught sight of a beautiful bouquet of flowers under a glass dome.

"They're wax," Johanna said casually as we passed.

Wax flowers, I thought. I was truly in a home of wealth.

"Nicole!" she shouted as we entered the kitchen.

An Irish woman with the fairest skin and fiery red hair was wiping her hands with a towel as she turned.

"Oh, Miss Hearst, have you tired of bringing in enough stray animals off the street that you've switched to teenagers?"

Johanna laughed. I smirked.

"She is dreadfully hungry. Can you prepare a meal?"

"Of course, what would you like, my dear?" I had know idea what to ask for.

"I dunno," I finally muttered.

"I have some lamb and potatoes."

"Thank you," I agreed.

"I just hope you can do something about all the poor girls on the street, Miss Hearst - put that degree to good use." Nicole said.

"Degree?" I asked.

Nicole chimed in, "A law degree. My sweet girl, you are looking at one of the only four female lawyers in all of New York!"

"You're a lawyer!" I shouted. "How...?" I stumbled.

"Come here, I'll show you."

Nicole continued to prepare my meal as Johanna led me to the neighboring library filled with large leather-bound books. Johanna illuminated a bronze gasolier as we entered the room.

"These are all my father's books and a few of my brothers'. I studied them all."

"You read all these?"

"Most of them. Against my father's will, I took the New York Bar."

"Your father didn't want you to do it?"

"He didn't think I could."

"I can't believe it..."

"I'm sure I will put it to good use one day. Illinois has made it lawful for a female to preside as a lawyer. However, no one, no woman, has challenged the New York law in the courts yet." I watched as she perused the books with a tender hand. Thoughts raced through my mind, but only one tugged at me: the image of my grandfather in the Auburn in his cell. It was then that I knew I needed to trust Johanna, for my grandfather's sake.

"Miss Hearst?"

"Yes, Hailey?"

"My father is in jail."

Her brow furrowed. "Why?"

"They say he killed a policeman, but he didn't. I know he didn't."

"Where is he now?"

"He's in the Auburn awaiting his trial." Tears streamed down my face. "My grandfather the best man I've ever known."

I couldn't hold it in any more. The emotion poured out of me until the sobs were so loud they brought Nicole in from the kitchen. Johanna held me close and let me cry. After a moment I looked up to her, realizing I had said _grandfather._ She looked confused.

"Child, I think you mean father?" she asked.

I decided to tell her the truth. I couldn't keep it to myself anymore, I was too scared I wouldn't be able to go back to 2013. "You wouldn't understand," I cried.

She sat me down on the sofa and brushed away my tears. "Try me," she said smiling.

I sniffled. "I might as well tell you," I said, taking a deep breath. She waited for me to speak. "I-I'm not really supposed to be here," I began shaking. "I was transported back here from the future." Johanna, to my surprise, didn't look at all shocked. I continued, "He is my grandfather back in 2013, and I guess because of the time change, I'm living in his adult years. This mirror brought me back here."

"Tell me about your family back home," Johanna said soothingly.

I brushed away a tear. "My mom likes to micro-manage things," I said laughing. "And my dad is the smartest man I know. My older brother, Matthew, is annoying but we get along. My grandpa was married, but his wife died soon after. So, I never knew my grandmother. But, he still has her room back home and all of her possessions, including this beautiful mirror which brought me here." I paused to see if she was keeping up. "I don't know if this is a dream or a second chance to find out who my grandmother was but..." I stopped myself from choking over my tears. I looked up at her. "would you help me? Can you help me?" I managed through the tears.

Her face stared down at me, and she smiled. "I was just waiting for you to ask."

Nicole's dish of lamb and potatoes was so delicious, I had two servings. After my meal, Johanna showed me to her room. I was given a change of clothes and shown her bathroom, where a fresh hot bath awaited me.

"I will be downstairs to welcome my aunt for tea, and then once you are clean and rested, we will talk about your grandfather."

"Thank you," I exhaled. It was all I could say.

It was a glorious feeling to have a hot bath, a steaming hot bath. I almost fell asleep. I couldn't believe I had this luck. Maybe Spot had brought me this luck by not showing up to greet me this morning, I thought. Maybe all the bad had happened so that I could have all the good.

Wrapping myself in a dry towel, I stepped out and glanced back down at the bath water in the porcelain claw-foot tub. Judging by its dingy color, it had been two or three weeks since I last bathed.

Hanging on a satin hanger on the glass knob of the bathroom door was Johanna's sister's white linen and lace dress. I studied it like a fine work of art. It was perfectly pressed and beautiful, but there was still something about Race's hand-me-downs that I cherished. I gazed into the full length mirror. A mirror with an ivory frame and an inscription on the back. I touched the glass. My hand went through. I gasped and pulled my hand out. A light shimmered from the other side of the mirror. This was the mirror in my grandmother's room. But, why did Johanna have it?

As I slipped on my new clothes, I imagined that in that moment the newsboys were picking their new committee, Kid was in some police station, Crutchy was in the Refuge, and Jack was being arraigned by the magistrate for his disturbance. And although it hurt me I didn't know what happened to Spot, it hurt even more that he had not reached out in any way to send a message.

My thoughts were interrupted by noise echoing from the lower floor. Johanna's aunt had arrived. I only needed to wait for her visit to end to see my grandpa again. I brushed my tangly and matted hair. My hair reached down my mid back and I took the white lace bow that Johanna laid out for me and put it in my hair.

I tiptoed down the stairs so as to not disturb Johanna and her aunt's active discussion.

"No, Johanna, that is not our responsibility," I heard her aunt say.

"Indeed it is. It is my gift. It is what I was given by the Lord, to help troubled teenaged girls in this way. Not your way, but my own."

I knew pretty quickly that I was the topic of the conversation, so I stopped and waited midway down the stairs.

"Your father, my brother-in-law, is in a deep terrible mess with the strike those wretched newsboys are inflicting, and you wish to call more attention to him by finally coming forward to practice law?" her aunt demanded. Her voice sounded horribly familiar.

"It is not a terrible thing. It is an honorable thing, Aunt Irena." Johanna argued.

I descended the final steps with cause, hoping to put my two cents into the conversation, but I was stopped cold. My heart nearly fell out of my chest. Both faces turned my way: Johanna...and the Reformer Mrs. Irena Lambert.

She was dressed in her usual black long-sleeved frock. Her eyes immediately recognized me, and she rose to her feet.

"I know this girl!"

I backed away instinctively, my heart beating so fast that I swore it might explode.

"No...no..." I shook my head

"This girl," she said accusatorily, "is a runaway from the orphanage."

I backed farther up the stairway as the Reformer edged closer, blocking me in. Johanna stepped forward to stop her, but Miss Lambert was already up the stairs, reaching for my arm.

I didn't even have time to think. I flipped my body over the railing of the stairway and slid across the polished floor toward the door. Running with all my strength, I reached the foyer and lunged for the doorknob.

"Hailey!" Johanna shouted.

"Get your orphan ass over here right now!" screamed the Reformer.

Breaking free, I took off down the street, panting and close to tears. I didn't know if my escape had been the right decision, but I had to do all I could avoid going back to the orphanage. Hell, I wasn't even an orphan..sort of. I slowed down my pace as I fell out of the sight of the Hearst home.

Doubt was flooding my brain. I wanted to return and trust that Johanna would fight for me, but I continued walking. I felt even more lost when a reflection in a storefront window reminded me that I was dressed like a daughter of a newspaper giant like Hearst in my white linen dress, white satin hair bow, tights, and black boots. I frowned at me reflection; this wasn't me. Suddenly a whistle echoed behind me.

I exhaled and braced myself for the only person in that moment who could be worse than the Reformer: Fang.


	17. Captive

I figured one reason for Fang's name was his sharpened front teeth, like a werewolf. Up close, he made it easy to get lost in his eyes.

"If I ain't been given a gift from 'eaven," Fang cackled.

Fang's boys seized me, and I screamed for help. In a snap, Fang lifted his hand and struck me across the jaw, sending me a stinging sensation through my mouth. My eyes filled with tears, anger, and hate. Spot was right. Fang would hit a girl.

"Spot will kill ya, Fang! He'll kill ya!" I shot back in retaliation, adopting the newsie's street accent.

"Don't youse worry. If I knows Spot, he'll come and get ya."

At this time, New York was building the Interborough Rapid Transit, a railway under the streets known as a "subway." Fang and his boys had found that these newly birthed tunnels would make the perfect playground.

The boys led me down a sewer to one of these underground tunnels that had been abandoned by workers, probably for its instability. By the look of it, it was similar to the underground mine train ride at the amusement parks.

The boys placed me in a corner, and Fang watched me like a hawk as he paced in deep thought. Finally he turned to a large boy who looked just like the one Race got in a fight with. "Joker, go tell 'im, quick. We want four hundred, nothin' less."

Joker nodded and ran out.

"Why do you want me here?" I stumbled over my words.

"Cause of Spot." Fang spat.

"I don't know how you are even going to find him."

"Oh, we know where he is."

"They say he's a traitor now, a scab like you," I mumbled, trying to deter him.

Fang laughed and flashed me a smile any girl would melt over. I rolled my eyes. "Spot's much more than that." Fang leaned in close to me till I could feel his breath on my nose. "He's _the _man now. He's the one talking with Pulitzer."

"What?"

Fang touched a strand of my hair; I flinched. "He's the one close to all the money. And now with you, I get what I want."

I grit my teeth but eased my breathing. If I remained calm, chances are, so would he. "Spot doesn't have any money!" I shot back.

"You dunno how it works, dollface. Pulitzer's gonna make Spot a scab. Spot's worth at least four hundred to Pulitzer right now. And they've already got Jack."

"How are you gonna do that?" I asked calmly.

"With you, girly. He can get you unharmed for four hundred."

I swallowed hard at the word "unharmed."

"He won't do it," I said, doing all that I could to convince him of how flawed his scheme was.

"Like I said he's honorable. That's his weakness." Fang smiled from ear to ear. His lips spread, revealing his sharp teeth.

In that dark and damp tunnel, I regretted my fight with Johanna. I would happily have risked returning to the orphanage rather than have Spot become a scab.

As they waited for the large boy to return, Fang and his gang played craps, lost their money, played craps again, and got their money back. All this happened with fistfights and dirty words flying all around, in between every roll.

Time was irrelevant in the cold, dark tunnel. Whether it was late afternoon or midnight, I had no clue. I was stuck and at the mercy of Fang and his boys. I figured if I was waiting for something, I was waiting for them to fall asleep and I would navigate my escape. Surprisingly, I wasn't afraid. I was a lot stronger than the Hailey back in 2013.

Suddenly, a noise rustled from the end of the tunnel. Fang looked up.

"Joker?"

There was no response.

Fang stood up and moved closer to the dark, dimensionless tunnel. "Joker! Come out, ya goon!" Fang's voice echoed.

"Eh! What's that?" One of the boys pointed ahead.

But Fang's eyes were already fixed on it, a tiny red light that was growing bigger and bigger.

Some of the boys backed up, but Fang inched forward, perplexed by the light.

"It's a sewer cat or somethin', probably got a collar on, just reflectin' sunlight," Fang smirked at the scared boys.

But the single light got bigger and brighter as if it were moving forward.

Then, through the darkness, the source of the light was revealed, the inflamed end of a lit stick of dynamite held by Spot.

"Dynamite!" screeched one of the boys.

"You crazy?! I'm outta here," echoed a couple of boys as they scrambled for the escape ladder. Fang held his ground.

"Do ya have de money?" Fang shouted.

"What does it look like? Hailey, come here," Spot signaled.

I got up, but the two largest boys who had stayed behind were on me immediately. "Do not release her," Fang instructed. "I ain't got my money yet."

"Then ya gonna be blown to pieces."

"And so is youse," Fang pointed out.

"That's the chance I'll take. But I'm in control of this wick, and I can pull it out if you set Hailey free."

Fang's stern bravado was faltering. He looked back at the boys for support, but they were just as clueless as he was.

The boys faced off, staring down one another to test each other's wills, like some James Bond movie.

Suddenly, Fang lunged at the dynamite, throwing Spot to the ground. The two wrestled, scrapping at each other's faces, reaching for control of the wick.

"Stop it! It's gonna blow!" yelled one of Fang's boys.

Fang reached for the wick, but Spot pulled it around to the other side, out of Fang's reach.

"Stop it! Stop!" I yelled, seeing the dynamite was about to blow.

"I'm outta here!" The two boys ran off, leaving me with no captors.

"Spot!" I shouted to get his attention.

"Run!" Spot said. "Get out of here, Hailey! Go!"

Without thinking, I started to run into the dark tunnel as fast as I could go when - _bang!_ - the entire tunnel shook, and the loud explosion sent me falling to the ground.

For a moment, I blacked out, but I was shaken awake by pieces of chipped rock falling overhead.

I crawled through the darkness, back in the direction of the boys.

"Spot!"

There was no response. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I made out two lifeless figures, Spot and Fang.

"Spot!" I shook him, but he didn't wake. He was buried under fallen debris and was bleeding on the side of his face.

"No!" I cried, "Please no!"

I couldn't feel him breathing. Quickly, I removed the debris bearing down on his stomach. In doing so, I saw his chest expand, letting in a large breath.

His right eye opened.

"Spot?"

He tried to give a soft smile, but it ended up as a cough. He stopped trying to speak and just exhaled. He parted his lips and whispered, "Hospital."

**A/N: Ooh should Spot die? Or should I keep him alive? Review and tell me!**


	18. Winning?

The hospital was one large room with wide wood floorboards and a dozen windows along each side that flooded "healthy" light into the space. A row of beds lined each wall, which allowed the nurses to keep an eye on all the patients at once.

Every bed was filled. I walked along, scanning each one for Spot, trying not to look too long for fear of what injuries I might accidentally see. Most of the patients were covered in bandages, while others were completely hidden under white sheets up to their shoulders.

Spot was about halfway down the hall. My heart sank at the sight. His left eye was swollen shut, burns lined the side of his face. His right arm was wrapped in a sling. I took a seat on the chair next to him.

In the silence, I went back and forth between staring out the large window to view the street below and watching Spot as he slept.

"Hailey."

I turned. Spot's right eye was open. He struggled to smile.

"Don't move," I intructed him. "Do you hurt?"

"How do I look?"

"Like hell."

He chuckled and then grimaced from the pain.

"You shouldn't have done what you did," I said softly.

"What would you have suggested I done?" Spot asked.

"I dunno."

"All the boys were gone. I needed to do something drastic that Fang would understand."

"A stick of dynamite?"

"I was plannin' to pull the wick."

"Why didn't you?"

"Fang pulled it from my hand and flung it, girl. Where is he?"

Spot tried to sit up. I gently helped him.

"Is Fang here?" Spot asked.

I took a breath, and then shook my head no. "Fang died."

Spot was silent.

"The police knew it was a accident," I explained. "They said they've had a lot of trouble with the boys in the tunnel and they are always trying to run them out of there. They figured Fang was playing with the dynamite when it went off."

Spot let out a sigh. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I would have been alright if you had met me at the church in the morning."

Spot had a look of shame. "All this was my fault."

"Where were you?"

Spot motioned for me to lay next to him. I layed back, careful not to hurt him. He stroked my hair back.

"I saw Jack get in a nice cab supplied by Pulitzer last night, and I knew what they were gonna do, offer him six hundred dollars. At least that's what he told me later when he caught up to him."

"Six hundred dollars!"

"He said he didn't. But I'm not sure. While we were talkin', Race was furious and said it wasn't fair. He was afraid Jack was a scab, so he went over with Kid and Mush and some others to see if they could get Jack out. I went to try and stop them cause it was too risky. I was gonna talk with Pulitzer, but they set a trap to make it look like blackmail. I jumped out of the window, but the other boys weren't so lucky. Thing was, Jack was standin' right there."

"Jack didn't speak up for them?"

"Nah. So I was mad, and I went to go to see Harry Manchester."

"The lawyer? Oh, no, Spot, you didn't! You shouldn't have...not for me."

"Nah, Hailey, it's not what you think."

"You didn't hire him with bribe money?"

"Nah."

"Then why did you go?"

"It was clear Pulitzer and Hearst were purposely avoiding the union, only talkin' through the circulation managers to relay their offers. And I couldn't go to Pulitzer alone without it bein' viewed as extortion or being a traitor. So I got Manchester to come with me."

"The lawyer? Why?"

"Simple, he wanted a chance to meet Pulitzer. He's a bit of a fame seeker. Plus, he liked my argument."

Spot tried to sit up a little more. I helped position his arm across his body as he continued, charged to tell me the story.

"I figured that what the _World _and _Journal _was doing was illegal. Ya see, they priced six cents a ten during the war, like other papes did, to cover the cost of the extra editions, like a war tax. But the other papes dropped their prices back to five cents a ten except the _World _and _Journal_. So the papers were enacting a tax on us that we couldn't pass on to the customer. Manchester agreed with me that it was a strong arguement. So we took it to Hearst and Pulitzer."

"What happened?"

"Pulitzer and Hearst offered fifty-five cents a hundred, and newsies could return papes at half price."

"You did it!"

"I found the boys in a meeting to elect a new committee and told the boys...but they rejected it."

"They said no?" I asked, stunned.

"What the committee doesn't understand is that the boys are gettin' restless. Pulitzer and Hearst will continue to ignore the union and speak directly through the circulation managers. Especially with the incentives, I'm not sure how long the boys will hold on. I'm hopin' they can go to a compromise."

"Well, with Jack and Kid and Crutchy gone, a new committee, and now boys arrested for extortion, I'm not sure it's the same strike now." I sighed.

"I was worried when ya weren't at Park Row. I searched everywhere, then one of Fang's goons found me at the Lodging House..."

I shook my head in shame.

"Why were you in Fang's territory and dressed like that?" He gestured to my white linen dress. "I'm surprised Fang didn't try anything..."

"Like what?" I smirked.

Spot rolled his eyes. "Nevermind, just answer my first question."

I told Spot about Johanna, how I fled the moment I saw the Reformer, and how I had ruined my chances of freeing my grandpa, er, father. I refrained from telling him about my little time travel thingy.

"Ya should go back," he said. "Ya _will _go back and tell her everything, and you'll free your father."

"But how can I now? What do I say?"

"Sometimes winnin' doesn't look the way we want it to. Ya should be strong, Hailey, with whatever happens to your Pa." I sat up and got off the hospital bed and nodded.

A tall doctor with a slick black handlebar mustache approached with a nurse carrying a wood box, which she set on the table.

The doctor opened it up and took out a small bottle of white powder. He dipped a tiny spoon into it and scooped up some of its contents. Emptying it into a glass of water, the powder quickly dissolved. Aspirin.

"Drink this," he said, handing the glass to Spot. "It will help with the pain."

Spot drank the entire glass and handed it back to the doctor.

"You suffered a lot of interior trauma, young man. It's a miracle you are sitting up and talking."

I lowered my head, still feeling responsible for the whole dynamite thing.

"Do you have a family, young man? If so, we must contact them immediately." The doctor said.

I looked over at Spot, but he didn't seem to be worried. "Patrick and Bernadette Conlon of 55th Street Tenements, sir." Spot said with an even voice.

I was shocked he was telling them where his family lived. The doctor nodded and wrote something down on the paper. "Your family should be here momentarily." The doctor concluded as the pair advanced to the next bed.

"Then I have to get you out of here," I resolved as soon as the nurse and doctor left. "before your pa..."

Spot grabbed my arm to calm my hysteria.

"Shh, it's okay."

"No it's not! Your father will take you back..."

"I've already seen my pa."

"You have?"

A voice boomed from behind. "Aidan." The man it belonged to was well over six feet with an overwhelming presence like a prizefighter. He approached Spot's bed.

"Hi, Pa," Spot swallowed. "This is Hailey."

Spot's father did not smile but nodded coldly. "Nice to mee you, Hailey."

"My mother's ill with influenza," Spot explained. "Her doctor says fresh, dry air is the only thing that will help her."

"I don't understand."

"We are moving to Hannibal in Missouri, and Aidan's coming with us," Spot's father explained in the same icy tone.

"They're movin' to a farm, Hailey." Spot tried to smile. "And they need me."

"No!" I demanded. "You can't make him. Can't you see he's hurt? He's worked hard to end the strike, and now he's almost done it. They need him!"

I looked down at Spot but he didn't say a word.

"Spot?"

"I think it's time I went with them."

"No, you can't. They need you...I need you."

"Not anymore. You've found the help you need. Return to that lawyer and free your pa. Ya need to do it now or you'll lose him forever."

"Spot..."

Tears formed in my eyes. He reached over his broken arm under his pillow and pulled out the key around the shoelace.

"This key unlocks my journal."

"Your journal?" I smiled, the final mystery explained.

"I want ya to have it. I'll begin a new one out West."

I took the key around the shoelace and the leather-bound journal he handed me and clutched it like a Bible to my chest.

"Won't I see you again?"

"I'll come back for ya. I'm gonna make some money, and then maybe ya can move out there too, ya and your pa. I hear there's a lot of room out there." Spot winked.

Mr. Conlon cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable at the sign of my emotion. "I'm gonna go get your siblings," he mumbled as he walked away.

With no one around, Spot held my hand and continued, "My pa stopped drinking, well for now. He's been doing everything to help my ma, workin' double to buy the medicine she needs. Maybe he hasn't changed as much as I want him to, but he's old now, and I have to be the one to take care of my family."

"I understand," I whispered, enjoying my hand in his.

"Ya have to go back to Johanna, as soon as you can."

"I know."

"Hailey?"

I looked up, unable to stop the tears rolling down my face.

"Do ya remember how ya spoke up at the meetin' in Irving Hall?"

I nodded.

"You're stronger than ya think. You're not the same girl I tripped at Vanderbilt."

"Tripped? I fell. I'm just clumsy like that..."

"I tripped ya." His face flushed red. "I thought...I dunno. I wanted a moment to talk to ya, so I did a stupid boy thing, and I tripped ya."

"So outside the orphanage?"

"I knew ya were there. I knew it was ya when ya called down to me. Why would a newsie pick that spot?"

I laughed, "So this whole time?"

Spot nodded. "I'se like youse, Hailey," he said as if the words were strange to him.

I smiled. "I like you too," My eyes shimmered with tears. "Don't go," I whispered.

Spot clutched my hand tightly. "Remember what I said about winnin' not always lookin' the way we want it to? This is one of those times."

Spot and I sat there in silence, the opportunity of our lives as blank as a sheet of paper before us. All we were certain of was that we wouldn't write them together.


End file.
